


I Can Never Go Home (Part 1): Visions and Revisions

by fanspired



Series: The Song Remains the Same [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama & Romance, Epic Romance, Hunters & Hunting, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mystery, Sexual Content, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Thriller, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-12 05:02:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanspired/pseuds/fanspired
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p> Go back to the beginning . . . and take a different road.</p>
  <p>    <img/></p>
</div> <p>Attempting to escape from his violent past and the demands of his hunter family, Sam Campbell is struggling to make a life for himself in a new town when a death vision of his employer’s wife and son, under horribly familiar circumstances, draws him back into old ways and the hunt for his mother’s killer. Can Sam prevent the Winchesters and their college student son from becoming the demon's next victims?</p><p>A/N: First of a two part pilot for an episodic serial that mimics the format and style of the original show. There is an ongoing slash romance sub-plot (manifesting mainly as UST nuances in the early episodes), but each episode contains a self-contained adventure plot that can be read as a stand alone story.</p><p>Disclaimer: I write for love only. Based on characters created by Eric Kripke</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What's wrong with this picture?

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Я не смогу вернуться домой (часть 1): Видения и предвиденья](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2464655) by [Yelynx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yelynx/pseuds/Yelynx)



> ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS AND DISCLAIMERS: My grateful thanks to my most loyal supporter for being my beta-reader, and to yelynx for the beautiful banner. Apologies to the writers and creators of Supernatural for my use and abuse of their original material. Allusions to other fandoms will be acknowledged when the closing chapter is posted. I write for love only.
> 
> Originally posted at FF, LJ, Sinful Desires and the Sam/Dean Slash Archive. This episode has now been TRANSLATED into RUSSIAN by the very talented yelynx, who also created the banner. Her master post is available at Live Journal http://yelynx.livejournal.com/17155.html or AO3 http://archiveofourown.org/works/2464655/chapters/5464727

The house was unexceptional. It could have been one of a million homes in America's heartland, and there was absolutely nothing about its features that made them memorable. Once viewed, its details would slip from the mind as easily as the remnants of a fading dream. The young man who was ascending the stairs clutching a sandwich was another matter. Tall, lean-muscled, with a mop of carefully blow-waved ash-brown hair and a manner of studied ease, he could have been a male model. But it was only when you studied his face close up that you appreciated how extraordinarily beautiful he was. His boyish features had an almost feminine sensuality; his large liquid-bright eyes sparkled with iridescent green-hazel hues and were framed by a thick fringe of astonishingly long lashes, and his mouth . . . his mouth . . . his full, silk-soft, sensuous lips had a compelling fascination – they made you want to touch, want to kiss, to taste . . .

He was raising the sandwich to his mouth as he reached a bedroom door. Pausing before opening it he glanced down the hall to the room at the end of the passage where light streamed through a partially open door.

"Night, Mom!" he called.

He took a bite of his sandwich and turned the handle of his own door, then paused again. "Mom?" he called again through half chewed bread. Some instinct, some sense of unease, drew him down the passage toward the open door.

"Mom?" he repeated, a little louder, a little more insistently.

The room appeared empty when he entered it and a puzzled frown settled on his face. Then something bright red splashed on his forehead.

_No._

He wiped the drip from his brow and stared for a moment at the blood red stain on his fingers.

_Don't look up._

His bright eyes flicked to the ceiling. There was a moment of dull incomprehension before they widened with horror and he uttered a strangled scream. "Mom!"

There was the briefest glimpse of the blood-soaked woman pinned to the ceiling before a wash of yellow flames blazed from the centre, engulfing her.

_NO!_

Yellow light enflamed the green in his frozen, stricken eyes before the room exploded around him and he was swallowed by the mass of greedy fire.

 

.

"DUH!" Sam woke up flailing and panting. His heartbeat was racing and his temples throbbed with a searing headache; he was forced to close his eyes from the piercing glare of the morning light. He lay crouched and still, fighting waves of nausea for a full two minutes before the pain began to recede and, even then, his respiration and heart-rate were far from steady. It had been so vivid.

He'd had nightmares many times before. Since his childhood his dreams had been haunted by death and violence, that was nothing new; it was to be expected, he supposed. But these new dreams, the ones peopled by strangers and strange places, the ones accompanied by sick pain and a horrible, helpless sense of foreboding, they were different. And now this.

The manner of the woman's death was familiar, too familiar, of course. He might have been able to pass off the dream as the product of latent memory and anxiety if it weren't for the headache . . . and the young man. Sam had never seen him before, he was sure of that, yet every minute detail of the man's features was still startlingly present to his mind's eye even now that the dream itself was fading. And Sam couldn't explain the acute distress he'd felt at the moment he'd watched this stranger die. He had felt it as if it were a deep personal loss. _Why?_

Slowly and cautiously, still fighting the urge to retch, Sam uncurled his body from its fetal coil then unzipped and extricated himself from the twisted folds of his sleeping bag. Making up a fire he started to prepare some breakfast, and all the while he cooked and ate a gnawing ache gripped his chest. He couldn't understand it, but he couldn't lose the feeling that what he'd seen had been real, that the stranger was real . . . that, somewhere in the world, the young man really existed - or had existed. As the last thought occurred to him Sam felt a stabbing pang of something like grief.

It made no sense.

With breakfast finished he bathed in the chill shallows of the lake then returned shivering to the camp fire. The clothes he'd washed and hung from the branch of a tree the previous evening were still slightly damp. As autumn progressed it would be harder to get clothes dry, but he hoped to save up enough money for the deposit on a place of some sort soon. After he'd toweled himself down and changed into his dry clothes, he took down the damp ones and rolled them in his spare towel before storing them in his back pack. Another minute saw his few other possessions safely stowed and the fire doused. Before he broke camp he performed his habitual checks - gun, holy water, silver knife, iron bar, stake . . . – before hoisting the pack onto his shoulders. It was heavier than it looked, but Sam was used to its weight. He had a long walk to work, but he was getting used to that, too.

 

~

Winchester and Copes Auto was on the outskirts of town. Sam acknowledged he'd been very fortunate to find a place with John and Stan. When he'd seen the advertisement for an assistant mechanic he'd walked in all prepared with his fake references, fake IDs and social, but one look at John's face and something had prompted Sam to abandon all pretence. He'd told the truth – or as much of it as he reasonably could – that he'd been brought up on the move, he'd never held a steady job but he had a number of useful skills, that he'd kept some questionable company in the past and had done some things he regretted, but he was honest (in his own way) and ready to work hard if Winchester were only prepared to give him a chance to make a fresh start.

Sam had found John instantly likeable. He was an earthy, no nonsense, practical man with shrewd eyes and a warm smile. He'd watched Sam clean a carburetor then he'd given him the job. And Sam had worked hard since then to repay the man's generosity and prove himself worthy of the opportunity he'd been given. Stan Copes, John's business partner, had been rather less accepting of Sam at first. His small-town suspicion of strangers had made him wary of the newcomer and he'd watched Sam with eagle-eyed vigilance while John had gradually given the boy greater responsibility as he demonstrated himself capable, and eventually Stan had come around and welcomed Sam as one of the team. Today, however, he was working on an engine by himself while Stan and John were doing a rush job for a regular customer. Mid afternoon John appeared by his side oil-stained and sweaty but looking satisfied. Sam inferred the job was completed successfully.

"Haven't had a chance to check up on you today, Sam. Have you eaten yet? I'll bet you haven't."

Sam smiled without comment. He was sure John hadn't taken any lunch yet either.

"Come on, take a break, son. You work like a machine."

Sam followed John to the kitchen where Stan was already making coffee for the three of them. He fetched his roll and juice from the refrigerator and ate quietly while the two men discussed their plans for Thanksgiving. Stan was excited because he was planning a big family trip to Disneyland. John was expecting his son home from college and was looking forward to seeing him. Apparently he was bringing his girlfriend to meet the folks for the first time and John ventured the opinion that Dean might be serious about this one. He expressed the hope that she might be a steadying influence on the boy. John always spoke fondly and proudly of Dean, but Sam sensed he was worried about his son for some reason. Sam wasn't good at making conversation so he just ate and read the day's news. A few pages in, toward the bottom of the page, a small item snatched Sam's attention. His eyes widened. By itself it might mean nothing, but coming on top of the dream . . .

"What are your plans for Thanksgiving, Sam?" Stan asked.

"Oh . . . I'm planning to go visit some friends upstate."

John gave Sam a searching look. He knew Sam was lying and it made Sam feel bad, but John was the kind of man who'd invite Sam to stay with his family for the holiday if he found out Sam was going to be spending it alone, and he didn't want to intrude.

"Where do your friends live?"

Panicking a little, Sam turned the paper around so the other two could see it. "Did you see this?" he asked. "About the dead cattle? Nobody seems to know what caused it."

John nodded. "Bad business. Jack's insured but the insurance companies never pay what these beasts are worth. It's gonna cost Jack and he can't afford to be out of pocket in this climate."

"Where's Jack's farm?"

"Over at Weatherall"

Sam hesitated. It was an awkward disconnected question, but he had to know. "Have there been any house fires in the area recently?"

John and Stan checked each other for confirmation but returned nothing but a shrug and a puzzled frown. "Not that we've heard of. Why do you ask?"

"Oh I just thought . . ." Sam thought fast. "I think I heard there was a study . . . some connection between house fires and cattle deaths . . . I don't remember the details."

Stan laughed. "Think you must've dreamt that one, kid. Mind you, seems like they'll do a study about anything these days."

Sam put down the newspaper. "I'd better get back to work."

"Hang on, Sam." John pushed his lunchbox toward the young man. Half of a thick chicken salad sandwich remained in the box. "Do me a favour and finish this off for me, would you? Amanda always makes too much but she'll give me hell if I waste it."

Sam knew what John was doing but he wasn't about to refuse. John's wife's sandwiches were always delicious. "Sure, John, thanks." Sam gratefully picked up the wedge. His mouth was already awash with saliva before he took the first bite. Mmm. Home cooked chicken, real home-made mayo. His stomach growled, impatient for him to finish chewing.

The dream, the vision of the young man, hovered uneasily before his mind's eye for the rest of the afternoon. He couldn't stop thinking about it, and as soon as the working day was over he headed out toward Weatherall. Conducting investigations on foot was tiring and time consuming so when John drew up beside him in the Impala on the way out of town and asked if he could give him a lift somewhere Sam was tempted to accept, but it would have invited too many questions.

"Thanks, John, but I'm fine. I enjoy walking; I like the exercise."

John's gaze flickered to the pack on Sam's back and back to his face but he let it drop, returning instead to the subject of Thanksgiving. "You know, I meant what I said earlier, about you joining us," he insisted. "It would be good for you to meet Dean. He could show you around the area, introduce you to some of his friends in town. Wouldn't you like to meet some young people your own age?"

"Yeah . . . yeah, I would . . ." Sam replied awkwardly. He was less convinced than John seemed to be that his son and his girlfriend would enjoy having a third wheel tagging around with them. "But my friends upstate are expecting me so . . ."

John regarded him evenly. "Well, if your plans fall through, you'll let me know, won't you? You'd be more than welcome, Sam. I mean it." John smiled warmly. "See you tomorrow." As Sam watched the Impala drive away a slight crease furrowed the flesh between his eyebrows and an odd, vague ache settled in his chest. He wondered what it felt like to truly feel _welcome_ somewhere.

 

~

None of the buildings around Weatherall looked familiar but it was hard to be sure since he hadn't seen the house from the outside. He established the site of the cattle deaths from a local and took the opportunity to ask about the young man at the same time, but the man didn't recognize him from Sam's description. "How about in town?" Sam persisted. "He'd stand out. He's . . . like a TV star or something."

"Which one?"

Sam was momentarily derailed. "I mean he's good looking," he elaborated. "I mean . . . _really_ good looking."

The man regarded him impassively for several moments before responding with a voice that dripped sarcasm. "I wouldn't know," he drawled unpleasantly. "I don't go around noticing if young men are good looking."

Sam felt the heat of a blush beginning to tinge his cheeks and he disengaged himself from the conversation as quickly as he could. His investigation of the fateful pasture was more conclusive but less than reassuring. His first sweep of the field turned up a residue of yellow powder, and a quick sniff of the acrid substance confirmed it was sulfur.

Sam's anxiety was tempered by a strange, dark emotion that was almost like eagerness. Finally, after all these years, Sam had found the demon. It was _here_.

 

~

His initial excitement soon dissipated into fretfulness and frustration. The day's discoveries had filled him with ambivalence. There was, as yet, nothing to suggest that the fire had already occurred, which led him to hope that it might still be prevented. Surely, after all, he wouldn't have been granted the vision if it were not in his power to stop it being fulfilled? But the discovery of the sulfur made the threat more immediate and he was no closer to knowing where the house was, or who the would-be victims were. He felt he was running out of time and he had no clue where to search next.

The sun was setting over the lake as he finished washing the previous day's clothes and settled down in front of the fire. He'd found the remains of a Snickers bar in his back-pack and that had been his dinner since he'd left it too late to visit a store, and it had only served to awaken rather than satisfy his appetite. More to take his mind off his hunger than anything else he took out a pad of paper and tried to sketch whatever he could remember of the interior of the house. It didn't amount to much: a couple of bog standard doors; maybe a picture on a wall, the details of which escaped him. In the end, it was only the young man that he could visualize with any degree of accuracy. He began a detailed portrait that he was still working on assiduously as twilight closed around his camp, and when darkness descended he continued to sketch by torchlight.

His pencil was lightly brushing the outline of the man's lips when his attention was caught by the sound of a motor in the distance. As the car drew nearer Sam was picked out in its headlights and he realized he'd camped too close to the road. He wasn't too concerned until he heard the engine slow, but as the wheels crunched on the gravel at the verge a short distance away Sam put the sketch pad away in his back-pack, and his hand automatically reached for and cradled the gun in the inside pocket.

The base beat of some rock track could be heard thumping from the car's interior, and as a door opened the strains of AC/DC assaulted the clear night air. Sam's grip on the gun loosened slightly. He was familiar with the number; he had heard it playing at the auto shop many times in the last month. A moment later the sound of John's voice simultaneously quelled his fears yet filled him with a different kind of anxiety.

"Sam! Sam, is that you?"

_Oh, crap._

A torch light shone on Sam's face and he could just make out John's silhouette behind it before the beam swung away and began picking out in turn the bare accoutrements of Sam's life that were organised around the fire. John's imposing figure took form as he stepped within the circle of the firelight. He wore an expression that compounded amusement, exasperation and understanding. "Dammit, Sam! Have you been sleeping rough out here all this time?" Before Sam could frame an answer he continued in an authoritative tone. "Pack up your things and douse the fire, Sam. You're coming home with me. There's a storm coming up from the south. You'll get drenched if you stay here."

Sam tried to marshal an argument. "No, really, John. I'm fine. I have a tarp. I'll be – "

"I said pack up your things, son!" John had already picked up Sam's backpack (an action that automatically raised Sam's hackles) and was marching back to the car with it. Sam stood for a moment with his jaw clenched and his nostrils flaring with conflicted feelings. He appreciated that John was acting out of kindness; still he resented being ordered around. John's tone reminded him too much of his grandfather. On the other hand, he realized that forcing a confrontation with his employer at this time would be shooting himself in the foot and, truthfully, he really would rather not sleep out in a storm. He stood irresolute for only a moment longer before shelving his pride and taking John's lead. He doused the fire, packed up his bedroll, gathered his remaining things and followed the older man back to the Impala.

The volume of the stereo assaulted his ears as he slipped into the passenger seat. John liked his music loud, and Sam was forced to raise his voice to be heard above it. "This is really too kind of you, John," he complained.

John smiled broadly. "It's just until you find your own place, Sam. Amanda and I have the room with Dean at college right now. You might as well have the benefit of it."

Sam could only mutter his thanks and he settled back for the journey. The volume of the music irritated him but, on the plus side, it eliminated the need for conversation and Sam was content to listen to John singing along in a pleasing baritone. When at length they drew up outside John's modest home on the outskirts of the town he parked the car and turned toward Sam. Fishing inside his jacket he pulled out his wallet and took a wad of notes from it.

Sam's eyes widened with alarm. "Oh, John, no, no!" he objected, but John just grabbed his arm and slapped the bundle into his hand. "It's an advance on your wages," he insisted, and it was hard to argue with the man when his earnest intense gaze was fixed on Sam's face. "Don't go hungry for the sake of your pride, son. It isn't worth it." He held Sam's hand gripped in his strong fist for a moment longer, and Sam swallowed as he fought to contain unfamiliar emotions that were threatening to overcome him. Then John slapped his shoulder. "Come in and meet the wife," he said.

Amanda was an attractive woman as warm, friendly and disarming as her husband. She looked vaguely familiar, perhaps because she bore more than a passing resemblance to pictures he'd seen of his own mother, and Sam warmed to her as quickly as he had to John. It appeared that John had spoken of him, and she welcomed Sam as a friend and quickly sat him down to join their evening meal. When she placed a large plate of home-made stew in front of him Sam could have kissed her.

Unlike John, however, she was less careful of Sam's privacy. She was naturally curious of his background and, initially, asked questions he realized he should have prepared answers for. It didn't take her long to discover that Sam was an orphan that his single mother had died when he was an infant, and that he'd been raised by his grandfather. When the nomadic nature of his upbringing came out she asked, with unaffected interest, "Oh, are you Romany?"

A slightly confused furrow appeared between Sam's eyebrows. "Um – "

"You were born in Lawrence, you say?" John interrupted.

"Yessir."

"I met a Samuel Campbell there once. Any relation?"

Sam hesitated. He was reluctant to acknowledge the man he was named for . . . if John _knew_ him . . . "Ah, yes. Distant, I think. I don't know that side of the family well." After a moment he added. "How did you know him?"

"I was there on business years ago." John responded. "We nodded to each other one time." After that he turned the conversation toward work matters and plans for Thanksgiving and, for the first time, it occurred to Sam that John was the one who was now being evasive. Funny, how knowing the Campbells would do that to a person.

But the uncomfortable moment passed as the meal progressed. Amanda pressed on Sam another helping of stew followed by two more than ample helpings of apple pie. It was more than Sam was used to eating, perhaps more than he'd ever eaten at one sitting, but he wasn't going to complain. John broke out a couple of beers and Sam actually started to relax. He was feeling something close to contentment, yet it was tinged with a pang of melancholy at the knowledge that it could only ever be temporary. John and Amanda were a window onto a world where he knew in his soul he would never truly belong. He wondered if the enigmatic Dean Winchester knew how lucky he was. Probably not. People seldom appreciated what they had.

When, at length, John suggested they turn in, Sam welcomed it. He was tired and the excess of food and comfort had made him sleepy. Amanda fetched clean towels from the laundry and he followed her to the upstairs landing where she showed him the room he was to sleep in and bade him goodnight.

Sam felt a rush of warmth toward her, and not just because she reminded him so much of the mother he'd never known. "Mrs. Winchester, thank you so much for your hospitality and kindness. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it."

"It's Amanda," she corrected, gracing Sam with a warm generous smile, her large green eyes sparkling. "And you've very welcome."

As she turned and walked toward her own room Sam was filled with an uneasy sense of déjà vu. He was suddenly convinced that she was familiar to him for more than her passing resemblance to old photographs. As she opened her bedroom door and entered the light from within illuminated the corridor and picked out a picture on the wall. Recognition came like a blow to the gut. It simultaneously filled Sam with the need to cry out and robbed him of the power to do so. He stood frozen, wanting to run after her, not knowing what he could possibly say.

_Mrs. Winchester – Amanda – you're in danger! A demon is planning to kill you and your son!_

She'd think he was insane.

Sam could now hear casual conversation being exchanged between John and Amanda as they prepared for bed. It calmed his helpless anxiety a little and he started to reason with himself. Dean wasn't due back from college for weeks yet, and that surely meant there was no imminent danger. Assuming events happened the way they appeared in his dream he had time to find a way to protect them both . . . Assuming that.

Sam's fingers were trembling as he reached for the door handle and stepped inside the room he now knew to belong to the young man of his vision. He turned on the light and swept his gaze around the room, trying to glean from it some impression of the familiar stranger. It was disconcertingly commonplace, like the room of any young American student. Posters on the walls depicted an eclectic musical taste, from Metallica to Bon Jovi to the Scissor Sisters; lining one wall was an impressive array of sound and musical equipment and speakers, and there were a couple of guitars in one corner. In another corner there was a students' desk and, above it, a stack of shelves that contained a puzzling mixture of text books on law, business studies and music theory. The space on the desk was taken up with an old computer, CDs and more sound equipment and, next to it, a number of large breasted, partially clad ladies pouted at Sam from the pages of a wall calendar. Nearer the bed was another book shelf filled with cheap novels, mostly pulp fiction - some horror fantasy, Sam noted – and, perhaps more surprisingly, some romantic fiction. There were also some DVDs: mainly action movies, some old classics and . . . Sam picked one out and studied the cover; _The Lake House_? . . . and a box set of some TV show called _The Gilmore Girls_.

Apart from the space filled by a small clock radio, the entire bedside table was devoted to family photographs and there, right at the front, was Dean himself standing arm in arm with his father, grinning broadly, dressed in fishing gear and holding up a large salmon. He was windswept and looking more rugged than he had in the dream but it was unmistakably the same young man: same ash-brown hair now tangled and flying about in the wind, same boyish face, same full lips, same hazel-green eyes. As Sam stared at the photo his stomach began to ferment with a turbulent brew of emotions, then a bright blue-white light illuminated the room startling him with a violence that shook him right back to the moment and its pressing threat. He crossed to the window where, on the horizon, he could see the bright glare of the approaching storm then a sharp, jagged fork of lightning. Moments later a shuddering bang rocked Sam's body before settling into an ominous rumble. He _didn't_ have weeks. Whatever the details of his dream suggested to the contrary, it was clear to him: the demon was here now.

But Sam's investigation of the room had given him time to steady his racing mind and start thinking of some practical measures he could take. He dropped his backpack on the bed, took out the holy water and, as an extra precaution, slid his gun into the waistband at the back of his jeans. Slipping off his shoes he crossed to the door and silently opened it, listened for a minute or so to satisfy himself John and Amanda were now safely settled in bed, then he stepped into the corridor and unstoppered the bottle. Murmuring the words of the incantation as quietly as he could he quickly traced the protective symbol of the triquetra, first on Dean's door then on Amanda's, before slipping downstairs to the kitchen. Lightning and thunder continued to alternate as he searched the cupboards and found a large carton of salt. Then his heart sank as the sound of heavy rain told him that it would be useless. A line of salt round the house would be washed away immediately, and lining the doors and windows of somebody else's home was impracticable.

As Sam stood pondering the alternatives he was suddenly riven by the simultaneous assault of blinding light and ear-splitting bang. The storm was now directly overhead. Then, as he tried to steady his racing heartbeat after the shock of the thunderclap, he heard a noise in the next room – a loud bump followed by restrained muttering – and his adrenaline levels spiked. Moving swiftly to the doorway he flattened himself against the wall and unstoppered the holy water once more. A quick glance into the next room revealed a male figure silhouetted against a flash of lightning, about John's height but not as broad, and heading Sam's way. Sam blew out a quick breath to calm himself then, before the intruder reached the kitchen, he stepped out in front of him and threw the holy water into his face.

The only response was a startled "What the hell - ?" and that coupled with the ease with which Sam swept him to the floor reassured him that his quarry was human after all, and not much of a threat either, perhaps nothing more sinister than some junkie robbing the place to score drug money.

Sam pulled out his gun and leveled it at the man's head. "When I tell you to," he breathed menacingly, "you're going to get up very slowly and keep your hands where I can see them." Sam had only raised the gun for effect. He hadn't even bothered releasing the safety, and that was just as well since his prisoner's response was to make an ill-advised grab for the weapon that might well have resulted in it going off in his face if it had been primed. Then he started screaming, and as Sam began to absorb the words he was yelling he started to get the first tiny, uneasy inkling of a suspicion that he might just have screwed the pooch.

"Dad! Dad! We've got burglars, Dad! Can you hear me? DAD!"

_Oh crap! Crap crap crap crap crap CRAP!_

Sam hastily replaced the gun in his belt and moved to restrain the young man's arms that were now flailing and punching wildly. He was panicking and unpredictable and Sam was loath to let him up until he could calm him down, but that wasn't an easy task.

"Ssh! Calm down. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to – I thought – calm down – just calm down – I'm not gonna hurt you!"

Suddenly the light was on and Sam's heart slammed into the wall of his chest with a force that expelled all the air from his lungs. He was staring straight down into the face of the vision, straight into those wide, jade eyes. And they were angry.


	2. I am the tune. Play me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's desire to protect John's family is complicated by his growing fascination with John's irritating but charismatic son, especially when he is trapped in a compromising position where he learns more about Dean than he bargained for.

 

 

  **i.**

"Dad! I've caught a burglar!"

The audacity of the claim startled Sam. John, on the other hand, seemed more amused than surprised. "From where I'm standing it looks more like he's caught you, Dean," he drawled sardonically.

Sam immediately jumped to his feet and Dean scrambled up after him. "John — I 'm sorry, sir," Sam stammered. "I didn't realize — I thought he was an intruder. I thought — didn't you say you weren't expecting Dean back yet?"

"I wasn't," John agreed, giving Dean a sharply enquiring look.

"Dad, he's got a gun!" Dean interrupted.

John's sharp gaze switched immediately to Sam, and Sam thought at that moment he'd rather be facing a wendigo. John stretched out his arm. "Hand it over, Sam," he demanded, coolly.

Sam felt his jaw tightening but he didn't argue. He was in John's home, and he'd just attacked John's son. He wasn't in a position to debate the issue. Retrieving the pistol from his waistband, he double checked the safety and placed it in his employer's hand. John swiftly emptied the magazine and stowed the gun in a drawer behind him.

"You can have it back tomorrow, Sam," John said, "But I want it out of the house first thing. Find somewhere else to keep it. I won't have firearms in my home."

"Yessir," Sam responded, but with a revealing sideways jerk of his jaw that told his discomfort. He felt like a naughty schoolboy who'd had a toy confiscated, but being deprived of the weapon made his gut boil with anxiety. If John only knew all the monsters that waited out in the darkness to threaten his home and his family he'd have every room loaded with more weapons than he could imagine.

"So you two know each other, then?" Dean finally interjected, eyeing Sam charily.

"Sam's been working with us out at the brake shop," John explained. "He's staying here until he finds a place of his own."

Dean's lips parted and his eyes widened with shock. "You rented out my room?" It struck Sam that he had rather the tone and appearance of a wounded puppy.

"Sam's here as our guest," John corrected. "And, last I knew, _you_ weren't coming back 'til Thanksgiving."

"What are you doing home, Dean?" asked Amanda who had appeared quietly at her husband's side during the course of the conversation. She looked concerned.

The moments that followed the question were silent but for the continuing rumble of thunder outside the house. "It's a long story, Mom," Dean eventually replied.

"You've been suspended again," said John, coolly. It was a statement.

A beat, then Dean hitched an unnaturally broad grin onto his face. "Apparently not _that_ long."

From John's expression it looked like Dean's false cheeriness had the effect of a cattle prod on him and it was only Amanda's intervention that forestalled an explosion. "Not now, John!" she said warningly. "Sam doesn't want to listen to us bickering. Whatever you've got to say can wait until morning." She stepped forward and slipped a hand round Dean's neck, combing his hair off his face with the other. "You need to get out of your wet things, Sweetheart. You're soaked through. Have you eaten? Do you want me to get you something?"

"Stop fussing over the boy, woman," John growled. "If he's hungry he knows where the kitchen is and I hope he's got brains enough to know for himself when he's wet."

Sam wanted nothing more than to be out of this uncomfortable situation so he started making his way to the stairs and mumbled something about getting his things out of Dean's room.

"No, you won't, Sam," John interrupted tersely. "You're in there, now. Dean can sleep on the couch tonight."

"No one has to sleep on the couch, John. I can make up the cot in the den — "

"You'll do no such thing, Amanda. Not tonight. It won't hurt Dean to spend one night on the couch. Now go back to bed. You, too, Sam. And _you_ — " John pointed imperiously at his son, "we'll talk in the morning." With that he took Amanda by the shoulders and steered her protesting body firmly out of the room.

Sam's skin crawled with mortification and he felt unable to move. He wondered that he could stare into the face of a vampire without flinching yet this little domestic dispute was something he felt utterly unequipped to cope with. He heard Dean muttering angrily under his breath. Something about "twenty-six years old" and he started stripping off his shirt like Sam wasn't even in the room.

Sam cleared his throat and started babbling "You can have your room. I'll get my stuff out. It won't take a moment, really. It's no problem."

Dean laughed humorlessly. "Except if Dad gets up tomorrow and finds you on the couch instead of me then it'll be _my_ problem. Don't worry about it, Sammy. You go on back to bed like Dad said."

Sam winced, but didn't blame Dean for the lingering anger and resentment he could hear in his tone. He couldn't imagine getting off to a start much worse than this with the man whose life he was supposed to be saving. He cleared his throat again but before he could say anything more Amanda was back carrying sheets, bedding and a towel.

"You'll be needing these," she said, handing Dean the covers. "Is there anything else I can get you?"

"I'll be fine, Mom. How do you think I manage at college?"

She laughed. "I can't imagine." She reached up and kissed his cheek. "I'm glad you're home. I've missed you, and so has your father even if he won't say so. Night, Sweetheart." As she turned to leave the room she smiled at Sam. "Are you ok, Sam?"

"Yes, thanks, Am — " Sam glanced at Dean "mm Mrs. Winchester." He winced again at the awkwardness of it all and Amanda gave him another sympathetic smile and was gone.

Dean was now pulling off his shoes and socks. "Hey, I hope _one of us_ is planning to sleep in that bed tonight," he said pointedly.

Sam shook himself and tried to take charge of the situation. "Listen, I'm sorry about what happened, I didn't know — "

"What about? The whole nearly shooting me thing? Nah! That was a bit of excitement in my life. Like going to the movies. It's not every day I get a gun shoved in my face." Dean was wearing his razor blade grin again. "I think I may have peed myself a little." Sam recognized that this was a defensive gesture, something Dean did when he felt uncomfortable or intimidated, so he was surprised when Dean proceeded to unzip and strip off his pants right in front of Sam. He must have felt very confident that his semi-nudity would be more threatening to Sam than himself. And he may have been right; the sight of Dean standing brazenly in front of him clad in nothing but his boxers was starting to make Sam feel very uncomfortable.

"Look," Sam persisted. "I thought you were an intruder and — "

"You don't have to explain, Sammy," Dean interrupted, his tone still falsely cheery and with a deliberately needling edge to it. "I get it. I really do. And, it's been great chatting with you, but I have to make a phone call — "

"It's _Sam_!" He was immediately sorry that he'd allowed his irritation to show in his voice. For a moment he'd forgotten he was supposed to be building bridges here. "Sam Campbell," he added, trying to soften it, and he extended his hand. It was a make or break gesture and it would be hard to come back from if Dean rejected it.

The intense green eyes locked with his, studying and assessing him, and Sam realised that Dean had inherited something of his father's shrewdness. He hesitated for only a moment before reaching out and meeting Sam's handshake with his own firm, solid grip. The warmth of the contact sent an odd thrill through Sam's body, like an electric current, and he wished Dean wasn't quite so . . . naked. It just made the whole situation feel a little . . . unseemly. But Dean didn't appear to feel the inappropriateness of it. He actually seemed to have relaxed.

"It's good to meet you, Sam," he grinned, this time with a genuine chuckle. "Apart from, you know, the actual _meeting_."

Sam smiled uneasily.

"It's OK, Sam. We're good. I get it. You thought you were protecting the folks. And that's cool." He looked straight into Sam's face and was suddenly serious. "I appreciate it." Another beat and then he gave Sam's arm a friendly slap . . . then he squeezed his bicep. "Hm. Some serious muscle there, dude," he commented with a quick grin and a hitch of his eyebrows. Then he picked up the towel Amanda had brought in with the bedding and started rubbing himself down and, again, it was like Sam wasn't even there.

And Sam started to wonder why he was still there. He had nothing more to say. He should just . . . go. He should go now. OK he was going to go now. "I'm going to go now."

Dean looked up and gave him a slightly quizzical look. "OK."

Still Sam hesitated. "Are you sure you don't want your room back?"

"We had this conversation already." Dean was fishing in his rucksack now and he pulled out a cell phone.

"Yeah. OK."

Dean waited, and still Sam hadn't moved. "I have to make a call," he said significantly. "I promised my girlfriend I'd let her know I got home safe."

"Yeah, right!" Sam shook himself out of the stupor he seemed to have fallen into. "Well, good night."

"Good night, Sam." And as Sam finally turned and left the room Dean hit Penny's speed dial and waited to hear the ringing tone. "That is one weird dude," he breathed. While he waited for her to pick up he wandered into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Quickly spotting some chicken he broke off a leg and the sizeable chunk of meat that came with it. He also pulled out a carton of milk and chugged on that while he searched for a plate.

"Hey, Dean, how are you?" Penny's voice asked him.

"Hey, Babe. What are you wearing?"

"Housecoat and bunny slippers."

"You know you're not supposed to tell the truth when I ask you that, don't you?"

"I wasn't. I'm really wearing thigh length boots and a thong. But I wasn't going to tell _you_ that."

Dean chuckled. "You're killing me. Ooh pie!" Dean pulled the remainder of the apple pie out and started searching for a knife while chowing down on the chicken leg.

"Are you feeding your face as usual?"

"I'm starving, Babe!" Dean explained through semi-masticated chicken. "I haven't eaten since the bus depot."

"I take it you're home now, then. How did you get there from the depot."

"Hitched."

"You shouldn't do that."

"Hell, I'm safer on the road than I am in my own living room."

"How's that?"

"Nothing." Dean didn't want to talk about the humiliating incident, nor the fact that his father had seen fit to install some complete stranger into his room the moment he was out of the house. "Tell me what's been happening at school." While Penny related the events he'd missed while he'd been en route home Dean scoffed his makeshift meal. The major news was that Jimmy Masters and a couple of the guys from the other house had been expelled. _Goddamn_. Dean had been lucky to escape with a suspension. He glanced at his watch but it was way too late to think of calling Jimmy now. That could wait until the next day.

"You dodged a bullet, there, Dean," Penny scolded him.

"Well, it's not such a big deal. If they're not expelling me they have to let me back for the exams, and I can revise for those as easily here as there."

"What did your father say when you told him?"

"He hasn't taken me out to the woodshed yet." Dean heaved in a quick breath. "I have that to look forward to."

"Dean, you always make your father out to be such a bear. I bet he's really a pussy cat."

"Yeah, well, this pussy cat can kill with disappointment at twenty paces." The bravado left Dean's voice and he toyed listlessly with the stripped chicken bone. "He let me do what I wanted, Pen, and I promised him I'd make it work this time. I can't afford to screw up again. I think Dad's fresh out of second chances."

"Maybe should have thought about that before you got into that fight."

"What could I do, Pen? Jimmy's a friend; I couldn't leave him out to dry." He heard Penny sigh at the other end of the line.

"Dean, I love that you're loyal. I really do. But you don't have to make yourself responsible for all Jim Masters' fiascos. You're not his keeper. He's just trouble looking for a place to happen."

"Now you sound like my dad."

"Then maybe you should listen to him. He sounds like a smart guy."

"He is," Dean admitted ruefully. "That's the trouble." A discordant musical cacophony suddenly sounded from the next room. "Hold on." Dean checked around the door, but all that had happened was that his guitar had slipped down from where he'd left it leaning against a wall.

"What is it, Dean?"

"Nothing, Babe." He finished off the remainder of the pie and chugged some more milk then wandered back into the living room, picked up the guitar and shifted it to a safer place in a corner. "So are you missing me?"

"Dean, it's been forty-eight hours."

"Forty-nine," Dean corrected her. He checked his watch again; "and thirty-seven minutes. And you _know_ that's a long time for me."

"You're incorrigible."

Dean grinned. Unbuttoning his boxers and shucking them off he hastily arranged the bedding over the couch and slid himself beneath the covers.

"So what are _you_ wearing?" Penny quizzed him.

"Nothing but a smile and a perky little boner," he replied.

She laughed. "Since when has it ever been _little_?"

"Aw, Babe, you're making me blush!" Dean chuckled, not blushing at all.

 

 . . .

Sam got no further than the entrance hall before he remembered that he had not yet protected the front entrance of the house, and the irony was not lost on him that he had just emptied the last of his holy water all over the man he was supposed to be saving. Fortunately Sam kept a crucifix permanently in the bottom of the bottle so he only needed to visit the cloakroom and refill it, blessing the fresh water on his way back to the hall. Opening the door as quietly as he could, he quickly inscribed and incanted over the portal then closed it again. Now there was only the problem of the living room, which was open plan. There was no door to protect, and it bothered Sam sorely that Dean would be sleeping in a vulnerable space. He stood outside the room contemplating the problem and chewing his lip for several moments before making an unusual decision. The most powerful protective charm he owned was currently hanging around his own neck. It had been given to him by another hunter when he was a small child, and he had worn it continuously from that day. Now he found himself slipping it over his head and off. A check of the living room established that Dean was in the kitchen and out of eye-shot, so he slipped back into the room and over to the couch and slipped the amulet between its cushions. It was the best he could do for now.

Then Sam made his third biggest mistake of the evening (attacking his employer's son being the second biggest). He started backing out of the room, keeping his eye on the kitchen to make sure Dean wasn't about to emerge from it. As he stepped backwards he felt his foot make contact with an object behind him, and it shifted. He froze immediately but it was too late. He could already hear the ominous sound of something sliding against the wall, and the next moment the room was filled with what sounded to him like the loudest noise in the history of loud noises as a guitar he hadn't noticed before fell to the floor and announced his presence with all its twanging, clattering, resounding malice. That was when Sam made his biggest mistake of all. He panicked.

He dived behind the nearest object that would hide him, which happened to be the couch. Cursing his own clumsiness, and cursing the infernal instrument (how many fucking guitars did Dean have anyway?) he peered around the edge of the couch to see how Dean had responded to the noise. Not surprisingly, he was at the entrance to the kitchen and staring searchingly around the room.

"Nothing, Babe," Sam heard him say, and sighed with relief. Dean then disappeared back into the kitchen and Sam rose to make his exit, but then he heard Dean coming back again. The full realization of what an appallingly amateur tactical error he'd made hit him as Dean walked over to the guitar and repositioned it in the corner. The couch was between Sam and the living room entrance, and there was no way Sam could reach it without moving into Dean's eye-line. He could only hope that Dean would go back to the kitchen or he was likely to be stuck there all night.

Sam moved further into the shadows behind the couch, choosing a vantage point from which he could observe Dean's movements without being seen. "So did you miss me?" Dean was asking. Sam frowned. As Dean moved closer to a lampstand the light was picking out marks on his body that Sam hadn't noticed before in the dimly lit room: bruises, bad ones, and for an irrational moment Sam worried he'd put them there but he knew he hadn't, and a second glance confirmed they were some days old, but it was clear Dean had been in a fight recently and not fared too well in the exchange.

"Forty-nine," Dean checked his watch, "and thirty-seven minutes. And you _know_ that's a long time for me." He unbuttoned his boxers.

 _OH CRAP!_ Sam quickly moved back and shifted his focus to the wall straight ahead of him. Not quickly enough. That image was going to be permanently burned onto his retinas.

And the worst of it was that Dean clearly wasn't planning to return to the kitchen any time soon. Sam could hear him making up his bed and getting ready to settle down for the night. The best that Sam could hope was that the phone call would end soon then he might be able to slip out once Dean fell asleep.

"Nothing but a smile and a perky little boner."

 _What?_ Sam's eyes widened as his mind reluctantly performed some uncomfortably simple mental arithmetic. _Oh no. Oh, please god he's not going to —_

"Aw, Babe, you're making me blush!"

_Oh no no no no no no no no nooooooooooooooooooo!_

"So why don't you tell me what you're really wearing?"

 _FUCK!_ Sam's heart was racing, and every adrenalin soaked muscle in his body was screaming _"FLIGHT! FLIGHT! FLIGHT!"_ but there was nowhere to fly to.

"You can tell me. You know there's nothing I can't work with."

All he could do was keep his mind focused on the pattern of the wallpaper dead ahead and try not to listen to —

"Shirts are good. Shirts have buttons. I like buttons. I can undo them . . . very, very, _very_ slowly. I can slide my fingers either side of the button until you can feel my fingertips just brushing your flesh under the cotton . . ."

Sam was holding his breath . . .

" . . . lifting the material with my thumb. You can feel it strain gently, then a little more, a little more, until you feel it pop and the cotton parts and you feel the air touch the exposed flesh beneath . . ."

. . . trying to let it out slowly and lightly so his breathing wouldn't be audible.

"and I bend down and lay the softest of soft kisses right where your shirt has parted."

Sam clamped his jaw shut. Right next to the couch was the towel Dean had been using to dry himself off. Sam reached out, snagged it with the tips of his fingers, started drawing it slowly toward him . . .

"Now I'm moving up the line of your breast bone, pecking gently at the flesh with my lips . . ."

. . . and lifted it in front of his mouth to stifle the sound of his panting.

" . . . over your shoulder blade, up toward your neck, and now I'm running just the tip of my tongue in a half circle round that sensitive skin just behind your ear . . ."

 _Oh no. Oh Christ!_ He was getting hard. _Why_ was he getting hard?

" . . . and my hands are stroking your body, gently, slowly, drinking in the feel of every little bit of you. I love the feel of you, Babe. Do you love the feel of me, too? Do you love how warm my hands feel through your shirt as I'm massaging your skin?" Dean's breath caught and he let out a soft sigh that sent an electric skitter down Sam's spine. "Oh, I wanna kiss you, Babe," Dean breathed. "Do you want me to kiss you?" Something stirred low, very low and deep in Sam's belly. It quivered and ached. "Yeah? . . . Oh, yeah, you do. Brush, your lips with your fingers — very lightly, very, very softly — imagine it's me."

Sam began to raise his hand toward his mouth, realized what he was doing half way, shook out his fingers and placed his hand determinedly back down on the carpet. This was so wrong. This was so many kinds of _wrong._

"Touch your tongue with your fingers. Imagine it's my tongue. Imagine it's slipping into your mouth . . . little bit . . . little more . . . little more . . ." Sam's fingers were digging into the carpet now. "Now take your fingers right into your mouth. I'm doing it too. I'm imagining I'm kissing you. Mmm." Sam's fingers were in his mouth. He had no recollection how they got there but, oh yes, he was imagining Dean's tongue, Dean's lips, _oh god yes, those lips, those lips_ and then he was imagining what else those lips could do _no no no that way madness lies_ God he was getting so _hard._ He heard Dean chuckle. "You know I can't do that, Babe" Sam shook his head, took his fingers out of his mouth and stuffed the towel into it. "I haven't even got your shirt off yet. Hell, I've only undone one button. We're not in a rush here, are we? I wanna take my time, make it last."

 _Oh Jesus._ Sam wondered, _how long?_ How long was Dean going to make him endure this torment?

"Well, maybe one more button now. Maybe I'll undo it with my teeth so you can feel my breath warming your skin, getting hot under your shirt, over your ribs and down your belly . . ." Sam's nostrils flared and he had to pinch his nose to stopper the sound of the snort. His eyes were beginning to water with the strain of keeping silent. "and now I'm just brushing your nipple with the tips of my fingers . . ." _oh Jesus fucking Christ take the fucking shirt off will you?_ "Oo! Babe! Such language! And you look so sweet and innocent!" The language in Sam's head wasn't getting any better, and what was going on in his pants was damnation. It was so cramped behind this couch there wasn't even room to stretch out his legs, and his dick felt like it wanted to bust right through his jeans. "You wanna feel my tongue then, Babe? You want me to take it in my mouth?" _Oh please don't. Please stop. Please just shut up. It hurts._ "Guess, I'll have to take your shirt off, then." _Yes! Thank you! Yes! Get on with it!_ "OK, I'm undoing the rest of the buttons then . . . pop . . . pop . . . pop . . . pop . . . and sliding my hands underneath, running them all . . . over . . . you . . . mmm . . . feels good, Babe. Love the feel of you under my hands." _What is this guy made of? How is he not driving himself nuts?_ Sam managed to swivel himself sideways, into a position where he could stretch out just a little. It gave him some measure of relief, but the tightness and throbbing in his groin was still murder. "Lifting your shirt off your shoulders now, running my lips over them, nibbling, licking, moving down . . . nibbling, sucking, moving down . . .kissing, licking, moving down . . . pecking, suckling, nearly there . . ." Sam's eyes were so wide they hurt, he was chewing the towel, he wasn't breathing at all. ". . . nearly there . . ." Dean's voice was a breathy whisper. It sent gooseflesh down Sam's spine, ghosting over his lower back, over his buttocks. _God._ He could feel it in his balls. "I'm taking your nipple between my lips." Sam's toes curled into the carpet. "I'm drawing it into my mouth, circling it softly with my tongue . . . is it getting stiff, Babe?" Yes, it fucking _was_. "I'm drawing my tongue ever so slowly over the stiff peak, rolling it under my tongue, soothing it with my lips." Sam gripped his nose again to forestall another flaring snort. "And . . . moving down." Sam so nearly, oh so nearly groaned out loud as he was taken by a violent shudder of excitement. Tears were streaming from eyes that were so tightly shut it was giving him a headache. "Running the tip of my tongue round your navel now, peppering your belly with kisses, like the wings of a butterfly, Babe." Sam found himself fingering the belt of his jeans. The trapped monster of his flesh was screaming to be released. "Take them down for me, Babe." Dean's voice was low and deep and husky, and somewhere deep inside Sam there was an answering primal growl. _No. Wrong. Bad. Bad idea. Don't._ But he was going to. Very carefully, he began easing the leather out of its clasps. "Slowly, Babe," Dean whispered. Sam had to be slow, had to be so careful that not a whisper of what he was doing reached the other side of the couch. In the quietness of the room he could hear Dean breathing. It had quickened and taken on a slightly raspy quality. The beast inside growled again. Sam felt its claws in his bowels.

Almost one tooth at a time, Sam lowered the zipper on his jeans and when, at length, he had them undone the blessed relief of having his dick free of their restriction made his whole body tingle. "I'm sliding my hands inside them, Babe, under the denim, you can feel their warmth stroking over your belly . . ." It had taken Sam off guard and he stopped himself a hair's breadth from slamming his head back against the couch. He bit hard into the towel but a ghost of a whimper still escaped his nostrils, and for long moments his heart raced frantically as he listened for any sign that Dean had heard it " . . . they're moving over the curve of your hips now . . ." Scooping up and bunching the towel he buried his face in it so he could pant his relief unheard, "sliding under your bottom, cupping you in my hands, fondling and massaging . . ." then he needed it to wipe off the rivers of sweat that were flowing from every pore. ". . . tugging them down now, down, down your thighs, off —" Dean drew in a sharp breath and blew out again hard. "Getting excited now, Babe." _Now? Now you're getting excited? Seriously, are you made of steel?_ "Wanna kiss your thighs, wanna . . . mm . . . bite . . . mm just a little," He _was_ getting excited. Sam could hear it in his thickened voice, in the tremor in his breath — and in the deep, the claws flexed, Sam's lips curled back and he bared his teeth. He wanted to be on the other side of that couch, wanted to bury his fingers in Dean's hair, his tongue in his mouth, wanted to feel himself all over his naked body . . . " . . . tongue lapping your belly now, backwards and forwards along the hem of your pants . . ."

G-GUH! Sam mouthed into the towel ". . . f — fingers exploring the soft f-flesh at the crease of your thighs, sliding under the hem, into your pants, feeling your hair b-brushing my finger tips — " _oh god god god take them off take them off!_ — "Wait." _What?_

"Wait a minute," Dean gasped.

_Wait? What? What are you - ? What?_

Sam heard the sound of covers being thrown back. A silence where Dean seemed to be holding his breath — What was he doing? Then he was breathing again, a little ragged at first but slowing, getting calmer, then "Sorry, Babe. Got a bit carried away there for a moment."

_I'm going to kill you, you lunatic, what are you playing at?_

"Now, where was I?"

_Don't know. Don't care. Going to kill you, freak!_

"Now, you know you don't mean it, Babe. You know you love the feel of my tongue on your belly."

_Nope. Not playing. Not listening._

"My lips . . ." . . . _Oh . . . damn_ . . . "cupping your flesh, suckling . . . while I'm lowering your pants, a little at a time . . . moving down . . ." _Damn you!_ The beast rose up again and snarled; fire and feral craving filled Sam's flesh and he was aching, aching, aching, aching . . . "So close now . . . you can feel my breath . . .it's hot . . . moist . . ." _oh god oh god oh god oh god_ "Lift your hips up for me, Babe." Sam's hips gave an involuntary upward buck. And again. _Damn._ Now he'd started he couldn't seem to stop. "Wanna taste you now, Babe. You want me to? . . . Yes?" _Yes._ "Yes?" _Yes! Yes! Do it! Do it! For fuck's sake!_ "OK pants coming down now, down your thighs, over your knees, off, my hands sliding back up your thighs, spreading you, lips seeking you, mouth closing over you, tongue seeking you, finding you, tasting you, mmm . . ." Dean was panting again. He took a deep breath to steady himself. "My tongue's all over you, Babe, long, slow, wet, strokes, tasting, swallowing, mmm — mmm . . . god, yeah! Love your taste!" Sam listened, eyes half closed, heavy lidded and unseeing, fingers digging into the carpet, heels pushing at the floor, and then his hand reached into the opening of his jeans. _Bad bad bad bad bad idea_ warned some tiny corner of his brain that was still working, oh but it felt _so good_ and the working corner was snuffed out. "Wanna know what my fingers are doing, Babe?" _Um . . . do I? Maybe . . . maybe, yes . . . maybe . . . yes, please?_ "First I'm sliding one finger, just the tip, inside you . . ." _mm not sure?_ But the beast was sure; it growled and purred, wanted more. ". . . now I'm taking it out, slipping the next one in . . . just the tip . . . then the next . . . now they're all there, playing, strumming, I'm playing you the way I play my guitar, Babe." Sam was shuddering down the whole length of his body. _Fucking god!_ "Want to feel them right inside you, Babe? Want me to touch you where it makes you shudder and moan?" Sam didn't even know what that would feel like yet the growl inside seemed to know. Sam slipped his thumb into his mouth and got it as wet as he could. As he slipped it beneath the material of his boxers he was past caring about the wisdom of what he was doing, he could feel the first tremors of orgasm building in his loins, spreading over his back, but then the couch creaked and he heard Dean sit up and for a moment his heart was hammering in his mouth. Had Dean heard something?

"Are you close, Babe?" His voice was low and breathless, but startlingly clear and and close sounding now that it was less muffled by the couch. "Are you gonna come for me? Yeah?" _Yeah, oh yeah, oh god, do you read my mind? Read my mind, Dean, I'm coming for you, I'm coming._ Dean drew in a sharp stammering breath then vented an unfettered cry of pleasure and satisfaction that thrilled through Sam's body like an electric charge. Sam could hear Dean's movements now, the urgent rhythm of his hand, and it vaguely crossed his mind to wonder whether Dean had touched himself at all up to that point or whether his only thought had been for — but then all coherent thought was wiped away as the wave hit and at that moment he heard Dean cry out "God! Babe, I wanna be with you now, I wanna be inside you, I wanna feel you come around me, I want you, I love you, Babe, I love you, GOD!" Dean was beating and thrashing against the couch while Sam was locked in a silent, violent spasm that shuddered through his whole body and mind and made his teeth chatter. Piercing, aching, intense pleasure beat through his balls and his cock and spread its fire through his abdomen glowing up through his body from the base of his spine, its hot fingers spreading up his back and chest, shoulders neck, it felt like he could feel it in his hair, and with each beat hot cum was spurting into his pants again and again. _Dear god dear god what was happening to him . . . ?_ And afterwards he felt stunned and exhausted. He'd never come like that before, never, and it scared him.

 

. . .

If he'd thought Dean would fall asleep soon after that he was wrong. He stayed on the phone to his girlfriend for what seemed like hours — may only have been ten or fifteen minutes — talking to her. If listening to phone sex had felt inappropriate and uncomfortable, being party to this private, intimate and cringingly sentimental exchange between lovers was mortifying and Sam wished himself anywhere, _anywhere_ else in the world but in the proximity of that conversation. But eventually, to Sam's overwhelming relief, it came to an end. Dean's last softly spoken sentence was "Babe? . . . Babe? . . . Pen . . .? . . . Penny, are you asleep?" a whispered "night, Babe," and then Sam heard him close the phone.

Sam had to shake himself to full alertness. He realized he'd been in danger of falling asleep himself, but then something happened that shook him fully awake. Dean's hand was reaching around the back of the couch, feeling around on the floor. With a sick sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, Sam realized that he was searching for the towel, and it was likely that if he didn't find it his next move would be to actually _look_ behind the couch. Sam couldn't see any alternative; he pushed the sweaty, saliva drenched rag within reach of Dean's questing fingers and _prayed_ that he wouldn't notice even though it seemed impossible that Dean could miss it. Sam waited nauseously for the reaction, but it never came. Perhaps it was because the towel had already been damp (though it seemed unlikely that Dean wouldn't notice the difference between saliva and rain), perhaps Dean was tired and not paying attention, or perhaps the cruel and capricious god that yanked the strings of his existence had decided that it had humiliated and screwed with Sam enough for one night.

Whatever the reason, it appeared he had finally caught a break. Dean used the towel, dropped it back on the floor, then got up and turned out the light before returning to the couch and settling down to sleep. As anxiety faded he found that it was replaced by new and conflicting feelings. The knowledge that Dean had just wiped his body with a towel soaked in Sam's bodily fluids filled him with an uncomfortable mixture of shame and indecent satisfaction.

Within a few minutes Dean's breathing had slowed to the steady rhythm of a light snore and after a few more Sam judged that it would be safe to leave his hiding place . . . as safe as it was ever going to be. Still his heart was pounding as he stood up, buttoned his jeans and tiptoed out of the room, longing to run, not daring to. It took until he was all the way back upstairs and into the bedroom before he could convince himself that he'd gotten away with it. And long after he'd climbed into bed his heart was still racing, and not just from the fear of being caught.

Sam turned on his side and stared unseeingly into space, his head and flesh buzzing. What the fuck had just happened? His mind was broiling with images that spawned more images, and each one stewed its own broth of wholly unfamiliar cravings. While the world around him seethed with its obsession with sex and the flesh, Sam had always remained aloof and mystified by the power it seemed to exert over others. He was indifferent to its allures and revolted by its carnality; his few fumbling sexual encounters had been motivated by little more than idle curiosity, and had left him unsatisfied and more puzzled than before; he had found nothing there to attract him. His own body and its needs were more often a source of irritation, inconvenience and pain than pleasure. But Dean Winchester held a fascination for him the like of which he had never felt before. Radiating sensuality from every line of his face and body, oozing it from every pore, Dean seemed utterly at home in his physicality, reveling in it. Assured in his expertise he still somehow seemed to retain the innocent joy of a child; sex was his playground. He was everything Sam was not, and that thought frightened and disturbed Sam while, at the same time, it exerted a profound and irresistible attraction. It was as if Dean embodied the promise of some secret knowledge that Sam feared and was drawn to, the way a wild animal circled a fire. Some monster that slept undisturbed inside him for years had been stirring restlessly since that first time he'd dreamt about Dean, and now it had awoken and roared. It had Dean's scent now and it pawed at Sam's belly, growled its hunger and demanded to be satisfied.

Sam sat up sharply and shook his head, trying to clear the unbidden ideas and images that were crowding his mind. He wished he could open up his skull, take out his brain and wash it clean of the impure thoughts. He was supposed to be protecting Dean from the demon, but right at that moment he felt as if he were the very thing that Dean needed protection from.

 

 

**ii.**

  
His father hammered on the bathroom door. "Come on, Dean! Don't spend all day in there. There are people in this house who work for a living!"

Dean checked his watch and pursed his lips. "Not even seven in the morning," he muttered. "I think that's a record for you, Dad." Sighing, he put down the hairdryer and gazed into the mirror. In the bright morning sunlight the bruises on his face and his split lip were more apparent. He briefly toyed with the idea of borrowing some of his mother's concealer but reflected that was highly unlikely to help. Slipping a towel round his waist he moved over to the door and listened. He couldn't hear Dad or anyone else outside, which was good. He didn't want to run into his father until he was dressed.

He paused outside his own room and knocked . . . his _own room_ , mind you! "Hey, Sam!" he called out, "Can I get in there? I need some clothes."

The door opened so quickly he was slightly taken aback. Sam was standing there already neat, showered and fully dressed with his backpack over his shoulder. How freakin' early did _he_ get up?

Sam seemed equally startled. His gaze dropped from Dean's face down the length of his body then quickly scurried elsewhere. "Sure, of course. It's all yours," he said, still avoiding eye contact as he left the room and stood aside to let Dean in. Dean noticed Sam was avoiding his gaze and, if he wasn't mistaken, blushing slightly. He smirked a little as he closed the door between them and dropped the towel on his bed. _That boy definitely has issues_ , he thought.

To give him due credit, Sam had left the room as he'd found it. The bed was neatly made up and all trace of his occupancy had been removed except for the slightest hint of an unfamiliar scent: a mixture of soap and engine oil and something herbal. As Dean opened a drawer there was a knock at the door and he could hear Sam clearing his throat. Dean glanced at the towel on the bed and grinned. He was tempted . . . _Nah. Be nice, Dean._ Wrapping the towel back around himself he opened the door.

"Hey, Sammy! Forget something?"

Sam frowned.  
  
_Oh, yeah_ , Dean remembered. _He doesn't like that. Oops._

Sam had something in his hand, a small jar. He held it out to Dean. "You might find this . . . It's good for bruises," he said.

Dean raised his eyebrows and his head twitched back a little. "Really? Well, er, thanks." He took the proffered jar and examined it. "What is it?"

"It's a homemade . . . herbal . . . remedy." Sam was still having trouble making eye contact, and still blushing. "Trust me. It helps." He shrugged and made his exit. Dean opened the jar and sniffed the contents cautiously, jerking back his head as something sharp in the mixture made his eyes sting. Other than that, it wasn't unpleasant smelling. He gave it a try and after a few moments it felt like it was doing something. "Hmm," Dean grunted. Well, that was thoughtful, he supposed. He cautiously allowed that Sam seemed to be an OK sort of guy, issues notwithstanding.

He took his time getting dressed. He spent a while reacquainting himself with his room, opening drawers and cupboards reminding himself where he'd left things. He flicked idly through the pages of a few of his books. He even picked up one of his old guitars and played it for a while to remind himself how that sounded.

It wasn't that he was putting off going downstairs, because what would be the point in that? Even if he could avoid Dad until he left for work, even if he could stay out of his way that evening until after he'd gone out to meet his poker buddies, and go to bed before he got back, and even if he skipped breakfast tomorrow as well and could delay the inevitable maybe as much as a whole day or two, still it would come. Putting it off was only prolonging the agony, and though a coward dies a thousand times . . .

He wondered why Dad even bothered. Seriously, what could he say that he hadn't already said when Dean dropped out of law school, or when he flunked business studies? What fresh pearls of wisdom could he find now to make Dean more aware of his screw-up status than he already was?

But maybe that was the heart of the matter. What if Dad did decide that it just wasn't worth his while to keep lecturing or yelling any more? Maybe what he really couldn't face was the possibility that he'd reached the point where Dad would simply give up on him. Dean dropped his face into his hands and sighed heavily as he slowly drew his fingers down to his chin.

"Dean!" His mother's voice called up the stairs. "Breakfast is ready, Sweetheart!"

He smiled in spite of himself. As meals go, they didn't get much heartier than one of his mother's breakfasts. And if there was a gnawing sensation in his stomach and if his legs felt a little wobbly as he made his way downstairs, well, that was just because he was hungry.

Dad was already there when Dean reached the breakfast table. He grunted an acknowledgement as Dean sat down, but his attention was absorbed by the morning newspaper. Mom was busying herself in the kitchen and as Dean helped himself to a coffee he tipped a wink at their enigmatic house guest who was seated opposite him. Sam managed a kind of half smile in return but . . . what the hell? He was _still_ blushing. What was the matter with the dude?

"The usual, Sweetheart?" his mother asked.

"Yes, please, Mom."

"Did you sleep OK, last night?"

"Like a log."

"And did you remember to put your wet things in the laundry?"

"Yes, Mom."

"You were very wet when you got here last night. Did you have far to walk?"

"Not far."

"How did you get here from the bus depot?"

Dean hesitated, knowing she wasn't going to like the answer. "Ah . . . I got a lift, Mom," he said, trying to phrase it so it sounded more innocuous but she wasn't fooled.

"You mean you hitch-hiked? You know I don't like you doing that!"

"Don't worry, Mom. I can take care of myself."

Dad found himself unable to restrain a quiet scoff. Dean couldn't altogether blame him. The claim did sound a little thin when all evidence to the contrary was sitting right opposite him.

"Well, that's assuming I'm not up against Sasquatch meets Dirty Harry here," he added.

"Dean! Don't be so rude," his mother scolded him.

"I'm just kidding, Mom," Dean explained hastily. "Sam gets that. Don't you, Sam?"

Sam looked up from his breakfast plate and twitched his lips into the briefest and tightest of smiles.

 _Yeeeaah . . . Nah_. He didn't get it. In fact, Dean wasn't sure this guy would know what a sense of humor was if he sat on it and it farted. He studied the young man curiously. In the light of day (and sitting down) he didn't seem quite as intimidating as he had the previous night. He was sporting a rather harsh buzz cut that, coupled with his height, gave him a somewhat aggressive appearance at first glance, but now Dean looked more closely at his face he realized to his surprise that the features were quite delicate, soft-skinned, almost effeminate. He had attractive, almond-shaped eyes framed by a long fringe of soft eye-lashes. They were an unusual colour, too: hazel flecked with gold, but when the light hit them there was a hint of blue as well. Pouty cupid's bow lips set off his features. He even had a cute little beauty spot to the left of his cute little nose . . . and dimples . . . there was just a suggestion of dimples there. It was a sweet face. When he was relaxed there was something gentle, almost angelic looking about him. _Huh_.

He was younger than Dean had originally supposed him to be, too. It was hard to say exactly how old . . . he could have been as young as seventeen, though from his stature Dean guessed he was probably at least twenty, but he couldn't be much older than that.

"How tall are you, anyway, Sam?" he asked.

"Six foot four," the young man responded.

"Hmm." Dean raised his eyebrows and gave an impressed nod. "You've got almost three inches on me," he acknowledged. Then after a moment he added "Of course, I'm just talking about height, you understand." He grinned.

Sam lifted his eyes from his plate and he gazed at Dean for a moment as a slight twitch tugged at the corners of his lips, then he dropped his gaze once more but the smile broadened, emphasizing the dimples in his cheeks. _Well, what do you know_? Maybe he did have a sense of humor after all. But as Dean watched Sam he started to be just a tiny bit unsettled by that smile. There was something just a little too confident about it. As if Sam was enjoying a joke of his own that he wasn't sharing.

Dean's thoughts were interrupted as his mother emerged from the kitchen with plates in hand. She placed Dean's breakfast in front of him and a plate of muffins in the centre of the table. As she leaned over the table she smiled at Dean, then the smile faltered.

"Sweetheart! What have you done to your face?"

 _Crap. Now for it._ "It's nothing, Mom," Dean tried to assure her. Then, as her eyes strayed suspiciously toward Sam he hastily added, "ancient history!" to forestall her attaching any unjust blame to the kid.

"Let me see," his father demanded, reaching across and turning Dean's face toward him, none too gently. He examined the bruising grimly. "Not that ancient," he pronounced. "You've been in a fight? At college?"

"That isn't like you, dear!" Mom exclaimed.

"I take it this is why you were suspended."

 _Fuck._ Dean's heart dropped like a boulder into his stomach, and silence prowled around the table with its hackles raised and teeth bared.

"John!" Mom hissed, with a significant glance toward Sam who was looking so hunched and uncomfortable that Dean actually felt more sorry for him for a moment than he did for himself.

Dad turned a level gaze toward him. "Finish your breakfast, Sam," he said in a quiet calm voice that completely robbed Dean of his own appetite, though he noticed ruefully that it motivated Sam to clear his plate as quickly as possible. Mom sat down and started to eat as well, but she was tight lipped throughout the rest of the meal. At length Sam emptied his plate and hastily swigged the rest of his coffee. As he stood up and thanked Mom for the meal he was clearly preparing to make a hasty exit from the powder-keg situation, but as he turned from the table Dad detained him.

"I'm going to be late in today, Sam," he explained, ominously. "Do me a favour and take the car in for me, would you, please?"

And Dean watched in dumb shock and dismay as his father reached into his pocket, took out the keys to the Impala and handed them to a _COMPLETE FUCKING STRANGER!_

Dean's jaw locked, his fists clenched and he concentrated everything he had on keeping control. Damned if he was going to let himself break down in front of the oversized freak. _Damned_ if he was! But one look at Sam's face was enough to let Dean know that his own was a picture-book open at the chapter entitled "Humiliation". He shot a look of reproach at his father but Dad wasn't looking at him. Dean understood that he was in the woodshed now. He just hadn't expected the first stroke to be so hard.

Sam wasn't taking the keys. Instead he simply turned and picked up his back-pack from where he'd left it behind his chair and started lifting it over his shoulders. "It's OK, John, I don't need the car, thanks," he said. "I don't mind walking. I'm used to it."

John slammed the keys down on the table in front of him. "Dammit, Sam, I said take the car!" he snapped. "Now just do it and get gone! Does everything have to be an argument with you?"

Sam stiffened. Dean watched as his jaw and face muscles tightened, then his nostrils flared and – _WHOA!_ Dean's heart started racing with something between acute anxiety and awe. He'd never seen _anyone_ look at John Winchester that way before, not if they hoped to look at anything else, ever again. Something, some innate impulse was trying to urge Dean to his feet. He had to physically restrain himself from jumping up and pushing himself between them, as if he could hope to protect or prevent either of these two giants from going at it if they had a mind to. But he was silently willing Sam to notice him, to catch his glance, understand his expression. _Let it go, Sam! Let it go!_ Someone needed to tell him . . . he needed to understand, you just don't argue with Dad when he's in this mood!

In those moments, as Dean listened to the sound of his own blood pumping in his ears, he saw Sam glance at him, saw him catch the almost imperceptible shake of the head Dean gave him and the mute appeal that pleaded with him not to prolong the confrontation any further, saw the fire that was blazing in those suddenly dark eyes recede just a little. _OK._ Dean started to breathe again. _OK, now just take the keys and go, and just let me get this freakin'_ _nightmare over with._

Sam hesitated only a moment longer, then his hand reached toward the table and his fingers closed around the keys. As he picked them up his jaw jutted outward and his head craned to one side, then he left without a word. But as he turned to go he threw one last enigmatic look at Dean, and just then the sunlight caught his eyes and lit them up bright blue. It reminded Dean of something; he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was, yet somehow it made him feel a bit better.

In the silence that followed Dad poured himself another cup of coffee while Dean tried to sort out the wild tangle of emotions the freakish scene had stirred in him. The rational part of Dean's brain acknowledged that most of his ambivalence toward Sam was due to his father having used the kid as a stick to beat him with, and that Sam was in no way to blame for that. Nevertheless, the angry child in him felt the sting of being denied a toy only to see it given away and as his father waited him out, forcing him to take responsibility for starting the conversation, it was the resentment that took possession of him, and he could think of only one thing to say.

"How long have you known, Sam, Dad?" he asked, trying to make his voice sound calm and conversational.

"He's been working with us about a month," Dad replied, equally casually.

"So you don't _really_ know him, then?" Dean took a breath before continuing. "I mean, you've just handed the Impala over to a guy you really don't know anything about. Is that who you'd rather trust than your own son?" As the last sentence came out his voice betrayed him with a petulant sounding squeak, perhaps because he hadn't really intended to say that part out loud at all.

His father took a sip of his coffee then turned a level gaze on Dean that made his insides wither. "I'll tell you what I know about Sam," he said. "He's been in town a month and I just found out last night he's been sleeping out by the lake all that time. Far as I can tell he has three shirts to his name and two pairs of jeans, but he turns up to work each day neat and clean. He puts in a full day, never skimps, and does everything to the best of his ability. There've been times he hasn't had enough to eat, but he's never asked for a hand out. Everything he owns fits in that backpack of his, and everything he has he's had a long time, and it's all well cared for. That's why I'm willing to trust him with the things I value. I know if I give Sam something to take care of, he'll look after it. You've never taken care of anything in your life, Dean. I've been waiting twenty-six years for you to show some sense of responsibility. I'm still waiting."

Dean stared at the table where his finger was tracing slow mechanical patterns on the table cloth.

"Do I need to go on?"

Dean swallowed. His voice was husky when he spoke. "No, Dad. You've made your point."

His father leaned back and took a long swallow from his coffee. "So, tell me about this fight," he said when he set it down.

"I didn't start it, Dad. I was backing up a friend." Dean felt a spark of conviction begin to heat his words as he continued. "You'd want me to stand by my friends, wouldn't you, Dad? You know you'd do the same!"

"Which friend are we talking about here? Jimmy Masters?"

The conviction Dean had been standing on deflated instantly and he fell silent.

"You could choose your friends more wisely, Dean. I told you that boy was trouble first time I met him."

Dean knew it. Jim was arrogant and rebellious. He was the worst possible influence but he was exciting and he was fun, and Dean couldn't resist him. Even so, Dean made one last effort to defend himself. He passed a hand round the back of his neck where the damp ends of his hair were irritating his skin.

"Dad, could you not allow for the possibility, just once, that not every problem begins and ends with me?"

His father leaned forward and held Dean's gaze. His expression was more serious than angry. "Dean, who else do you think there is?" He paused for a beat then he continued "Son, you need to realize there's not a damned thing in this life that you can control beyond your own decisions, and if you don't take responsibility for those you'll never be anything else but fortune's bitch." He sighed and now he just looked sad, and Dean's insides cramped painfully. That was worse than him being angry. Much worse. "Look, Dean, don't get me wrong. It's not that I'm not proud of you, for many things, your loyalty and your courage not least among them, but I'm worried about you. You just seem to be drifting. You don't seem to have any drive or direction, anything you really care about."

"That's not true, Dad!" Dean protested. "I care about you and Mom, for a start . . . and Penny," he added as an afterthought.

Dad smiled and sighed again. He shook his head. "Yes, you've always cared about other people."

"Well, what's wrong with that?"

"Nothing. Nothing." He shook his head again then he reached out and for a moment his hand rested affectionately against the side of Dean's head. He withdrew it again quickly as they both realized Dean was in danger of getting emotionally overwrought. "But you need to care about yourself, too. Isn't there anything you want for yourself, Dean?"

Dean squirmed uncomfortably. The only thing he could think to offer was the one thing his father saw no practical value in. "Well, there's my music . . ." He cleared his throat as he saw Dad trying to smother a look of impatience. "The band's doing well, Dad. We're getting engagements. People like our music, _my_ music - "

"And is that what you're planning to do when you finish your degree? What about the other members of the band? Are they committed or is this just something they're doing to get through college?"

"I'm training to be a sound engineer, Dad."

"And is that what you really want?"

Dean hesitated.

"You don't seem sure."

"Dad, what do you want from me?" Dean cried frustratedly. "It's a real job, I enjoy it and I'm good at it. What more do you want?"

His father was getting frustrated too. "It's not about what I want, Son!"

_You sure about that, Dad?_

They both fell silent. After a minute Dean made a final attempt to cut the Gordian Knot.

"Dad, I'm sorry about the suspension. It was stupid, but it won't affect anything. I'll go back for the exams, and I'll pass them. I've been getting good grades - "

"You got good grades at Law School, Dean, and at business studies at first, then you just seemed to give up - "

"Not this time, Dad, I promise you. I _promise_ you, I will finish this time."

Another beat and then Dad drained the dregs and looked at his watch, and Dean felt blessed relief flood over him. _Talk over._ "I'd better get to work. What are your plans for the day?"

"Uh . . ." Dean hadn't thought beyond getting through this interview.

"If you're going to be hanging round the house all day, at least make yourself useful to your mother."

"Right." Dean sighed inwardly.

As his father stood up he lifted Dean's chin and studied his face. "I hope you gave the other guy hell," he said smiling.

"Well, I think I bruised his knuckles pretty bad," Dean quipped, then wished he hadn't. Why did he have to do that? Why couldn't he just have made up something that made him sound like half the man his father wished he was?

A thump on the shoulder was Dad's parting affectionate gesture and Dean wandered into the kitchen where his mother was drying dishes. He picked up a cloth and joined her.

"Poor baby," she cooed, drawing his head down to her level and kissing his forehead. She drew her hands down his face and tried to lift the corners of his mouth into a smile. "He loves you very much, you know."

"I know, Mom."

"And he _is_ proud of you."

Dean smiled but said nothing. Honestly, what was there to be proud of?

His father appeared in the kitchen doorway. "I'm off now, Amanda," he said. "Is there anything you need me to pick up when I come home?"

"Not so fast, John." She dropped the dish cloth, gave John a prod out of the doorway and followed him through it. "I want a word with you before you leave." Dean cringed inwardly at her tone. Apparently his wasn't the only visit to the woodshed that day

He finished drying the dishes and put them away then he wandered into the living room, picked up his guitar and strummed idly until his jangling senses started to return to some kind of equilibrium. He hardly noticed the chords starting to fall into a pattern until he started humming snatches of a melody along with them, then he found odd phrases starting to occur to him.

"Hey, tall stranger . . ." he crooned. _Tall stranger? Dark stranger?_

"Hey, tall stranger knocking at my door . . ." He stood up and trailed his guitar over to his duffel bag, opened it and took out his laptop. Better get this down. It was always best to get things down straight away. _Door. Bore? Core? Heart's core? Nah. Too Shakespearean. For?_ He set up the laptop and booted it up.

"Middle of the night . . . In the middle of the night . . ." He strummed a few more chords. _Hore . . . Whore? . . . Jore . . . Jaw . . . Law_

The laptop beeped. He opened a page and started to type phrases.

"Hey, tall stranger knocking at my door  
In the middle of the night"

_Tore . . . wore . . . war?_

_For. Floor! Yes!_

He typed another couple of sentences then started shaping and rearranging them. _Dark stranger. Angel. Dark Angel . . . Devil . . ._ He definitely had something now. It struck him that it had a kind of mythic quest feel to it. He picked up the guitar once more and worked up the chords into an epic rock riff, singing along with his first draft of the chorus, starting in a soft melodic tenor but finishing with his best Robert Plant impression.

♫ _Hey, tall stranger knocking at my door_  
 _In the middle of the night, what you want me for?_  
 _Why d'you walk into my life, knock me to the floor?_  
 _Tall, dark stranger, what you want me for?_  
 _Are you an Angel or a Devil knocking at my door?_ ♫


	3. Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An encounter in a bar with a pair of pool hustlers reveals there are more sides to Sam than Dean imagined. Meanwhile, the omens are gathering.

Sam pushed the last of the crystals into the earth at the front of the house. He had now done everything he could think of to protect the family, yet he still felt uneasy. His mother had been a hunter, from a family of hunters. She had known everything that Sam knew, was well able to protect herself, yet she had died in flames on the bedroom ceiling just as Sam had dreamed Amanda would.

Thoughts of his mother troubled Sam as he recalled the uncomfortable day he had just spent at work. John had arrived mid-morning and had treated Sam affably, trying to behave as if nothing unusual had happened. Sam returned his overtures with cool brevity. He considered that John owed him an apology for dragging him into the family's domestic disputes and was disinclined to be forgiving when none was forthcoming. John had responded by becoming brusque, short and businesslike with Sam. It had made for an awkward work situation and for most of the day they had avoided each other as much as possible. Then, in the afternoon, John had surprised Sam by suddenly asking him out of the blue what his mother's name was. Still annoyed with John, Sam had lied readily and without shame but now he was beginning to question the wisdom of his own reticence. If John had once had some significant contact with the Campbell family he might have known they were hunters; he might just possibly have had some personal experience of the supernatural. If that were the case then the smart move would be to alert John to the threat his family was facing. But nothing about John's home suggested he had any knowledge of hunting. There were usually tell-tale signs: charms, symbols, books, unusually abundant supplies of salt . . . and weapons. John's stance on firearms alone argued against the likelihood that he would be open to the suggestion that his wife and son were the targets of a demon, and Sam couldn't imagine that an earthy, practical man like John would be very accepting of revelations that Sam was in the habit of receiving psychic visions. Most civilians would consider him to be a head case . . . and most hunters would consider him to be legitimate prey.

Sam wondered what reception he was going to get from Winchester Jr. when he entered the house. John had given Sam the truck rather than the Impala to drive home, which was a relief since the car was obviously a big issue with Dean, and Dean clearly had enough issues with Sam already. Plus which, Sam had seen Dean's moods swing through at least three different extremes within the space of a few seconds that morning, so he was evidently a highly emotionally volatile young man. That last one was strange, though, when Dean had suddenly and inexplicably seemed to be concerned for Sam's welfare and there had been that moment . . . that moment when they'd seemed to be in each other's heads . . . like they knew each other . . . Sam had fought side by side with other hunters, members of his own family, when life or death could depend on knowing each other's tells and when the minutest signals were enough to convey intention; but to share that kind of understanding with a complete stranger was impossible. Sam must have imagined it.

As Sam entered the house he could hear Dean's voice, singing rather loudly. He followed the sound to the living room where he found Dean strumming at a guitar – the same guitar that had betrayed Sam so unkindly the previous night. Dean had it jacked into his computer so all that could be heard of his playing was a stringy metallic jangling, and he was wearing headphones so he evidently couldn't hear himself. Presumably that was why he was singing so loudly . . . and not entirely in pitch. At first all Sam registered was the volume, but then he started to absorb the lyric. As irrational as it was to attribute significance to random words heard out of context, he couldn't help feeling chilled when he heard the last line:

♫ _With a fire like hell burning in his eyes_  
_He said, "Hey, brother, you'd better get wise._  
_You're life's going nowhere and you don't know why._  
_You'd better get your act together before you die!_ ♫

Dean glanced up as he finished the verse.

"DUH!" he yelped, startling as if he'd been caught in a guilty act. "Son of a bitch!" Pulling off his headphones he closed the laptop a little hastily, as if trying to hide something. "How long have you been there?" he demanded.

"I just got in," Sam replied. _Now what?_

Dean just stared at him for a few moments then flashed the shark tooth grin. "Awk – ward!" he intoned in a sing song voice.

Sam just frowned, puzzled. He had no idea what Dean thought was so awkward so he moved on to practical matters. "Where should I put this?" he asked, indicating his back-pack.

"Oh, right. Mom's made up a bed for you in the den."

Sam followed Dean to the room where he'd be sleeping and dropped his back-pack in the corner. Dean hung in the doorway looking doubtfully from Sam to the cot.

"Are you going to fit in that?" he asked.

"I'll be fine," Sam assured him, a little testily. He was getting a bit tired of the constant references to his height.

Dean still looked doubtful. He opened his mouth and shut it again, then took a deep breath. "Are you sure? Cos, you could stay in my room if you like, if you'd be more comfortable there. I don't mind."

Sam couldn't help staring at him. Why would he do that? Why would he offer to sacrifice his own bed? It wasn't as if he was much shorter than Sam, he'd be equally uncomfortable on the cot.

"I'll be fine," Sam repeated, more insistently. "It's an improvement on a lot of places I've slept, I assure you." Sam started to unpack his toiletries and lay out the next day's clothes. He expected Dean to leave him to it but apparently he wasn't done. He sauntered into the room and stood by Sam's side, a little closer than Sam was comfortable with.

"So what are your plans this evening, Sam?" he asked.

"Plans?"

"I was planning to go into town. Wanna join me? I could show you where the cool dudes and loose women are."

Sam started to suspect he could see Amanda's fingerprints on Dean's friendly overtures.

"Cool women, loose dudes?" Dean suggested when Sam didn't respond.

It occurred to him to wonder how Dean Winchester had lived so long. He chose to ignore the comment. The more important issue was that, if Dean was going out, Sam wouldn't be able to watch both Dean and his mother.

"It's your first night back from college," he pointed out. "Don't you want to spend it with your family?"

"Thursday is Dad's poker night, and Mom goes out to book club. This isn't family home evening. Get your glad rags on, Sam. I'm taking you out to dinner." As he turned to leave the room he flicked his hand backwards and slapped Sam on the rump.

"Gmff!" _How had he lived so long?_

* * *

He was playing with fire.

Dean knew that. He was taking liberties his close friends had learned to tolerate from him, but Sam hardly knew him, and he clearly didn't think Dean was funny (not even a little bit). He'd been forbearing so far (maybe too much so) but it wasn't as if the guy didn't have a snapping point. Dean had seen how close to it he'd come that morning and if Sam had been willing to go head to head with Dad, what would he make of Dean if push shoved? Matchsticks, probably. After all, Sam was a scary guy. Not that Dean was afraid of him, or that he needed to keep proving he wasn't to Sam, or maybe to himself, because that would be lame. It was just that Dean had always had a fascination with fire. The warmth of the flames had always drawn him closer and closer until he could find that point where it was just beginning to hurt, where it began to scorch his skin, the moment before it actually burned. And there was something so irresistibly enigmatic about the taciturn young man that Dean just couldn't help rattling the bars to find out what kind of beast was in the cage. He just hoped to God that when it opened he'd be ready for whatever walked out.

When Dean returned downstairs after showering and changing his father was just walking through the front door.

"Hey, Dean. Is your mother in?" he asked.

"No, she already went out. She left sandwiches for you."

"OK."

Sam emerged from the cloakroom washed and wearing a clean shirt, so Dean guessed their date was on. Why Sam hadn't told him to get jacked, he wasn't sure. Maybe Mom was right: he was on his own in a new town and he was lonely. Dean guessed, to put up with his shit, he'd have to be.

"Dad, Sam and I are going into town to eat. Can I take the keys to the truck?"

"Sam's got them."

Dean turned to Sam.

"Oh right, here." Sam fished hastily in his pocket and handed the keys to Dean who took them and turned toward the front door.

"See you later, Dad," he chirped. "Try to leave the other guys with their shirts tonight, huh?"

"Dean, wait a minute."

As Dean turned back his father reached into his own pocket and pulled out the keys to the Impala. He tossed them in his palm a couple of times as if judging their weight then he looked up and glanced at Dean and Sam. As he did so he seemed to be arrested mid-thought and he looked from one to the other again. He had an odd expression on his face that Dean couldn't fathom, but then he appeared to remember that Dean was waiting for him.

"Give me those," he said, indicating the truck keys, and as Dean complied he held the keys to the Impala out in front of him.

Dean couldn't believe it. He hardly dared reach for them in case he was misunderstanding, but as Dad continued to dangle the keys in front of him he accepted that he truly was, finally, being trusted with the precious automobile. As his trembling fingers closed around them his father held on for just a second longer.

" _Don't_ wreck it!" he admonished sternly.

"No, sir," Dean assured him then added "thanks, Dad." It came out in a hoarse whisper, and Dean turned away quickly to spare his father the inevitable overspill of emotion. He practically walked into Sam who was waiting right behind him, and he could have done without the look on Sam's face when he saw what was going on in Dean's eyes. Dean cursed whatever it was – weak tear ducts, an overbalance of estrogen, Moon and Venus in Pisces – whatever it was that made it so hard for him to hold back the waterworks when other men seemed to do it so naturally.

He felt ridiculously nervous as he approached the car. He hadn't felt this awkward since his first date with Nancy Weiner in ninth grade. He ran his hand gently over the roof before opening the door. "Not gonna hurt you, Babe," he breathed. Still he was convinced she was regarding him with derision and mistrust. Surely if she'd allowed Sam to drive her and escape unscathed she'd be at least as tolerant of Dean. He was _family_ after all . . . unless, _surely_ she'd forgiven him for sticking those lego bricks in the ventilation all those years ago. He was just a kid. True, you could still hear them rattling sometimes when the heater was on . . . and then there was the toy soldier stuck in the ashtray . . . but that was Sammy's fault. _Damn_. How many years had it been since he'd thought about Sammy? Of course, he'd used the name a couple of times recently . . .

He looked up at Sam to find him watching with a quizzical and, Dean thought, slightly mocking expression on his face. Dean noticed that, when Sam frowned, the corners of his eyebrows above his nose turned up in a rather exaggerated manner. It was kind of cute . . . Dean cleared his throat quietly, opened the door and slid purposefully into the driver's seat. He didn't want Sam to think he was afraid of the car. If he was sweating it was because it was an unusually warm evening for the time of year.

OK, so perhaps he was feeling just a little bit superstitious. It would be just his luck if, just because Dad had finally trusted him with the Impala, something stupid happened and he got the blame for it. There was no harm in being a little extra cautious. Though he thought he knew her like the back of his own hand, he still felt the need to familiarize himself with the layout from the new point of view. He closed his eyes as his fingers gently stroked then gripped the gear shift, and his other hand caressed the curve of the steering wheel –

Sam coughed. As Dean opened his eyes Sam flicked a finger between him and the dashboard.

"Do – er – do you two need to be alone?" he asked.

Dean raised his eyebrows and grinned broadly. So the young colt was starting to show some spirit at last!

Dean ran his hand lovingly over the Impala's dashboard. "Don't you listen to him, Babe," he cooed. "He doesn't understand us." With that, Dean took out his key and slid it smoothly into the ignition as he applied a firm but smooth pressure to the gas pedal. He felt a rush of exhilaration thrill through his body as the engine growled to life. Man, she had some power in her! As he took her out onto the road all his misgivings disappeared and he flashed a grin at his passenger.

 _Nah._ This was meant to be, he could feel it. They were made for each other.

 

**ii.**

Jack's Bar was still quiet when they arrived in town. Dean grabbed a couple of menus and led Sam to his favourite booth. Wendy, the waitress, spotted them almost immediately and was at Dean's side within moments.

"Hey, Dean! How are you? It's been ages!" she cried, treating Dean to a beaming smile.

"Too long, Wendy, too long." Dean grinned broadly back at her. "How have you been?"

Wendy rattled off some complaints about her family and a couple of guys she'd dated and ditched since the last time Dean had seen her, added some general gossip about the town and its residents before asking Dean about college. He responded with the highlights of the past semester, neglecting to mention his suspension.

"And how's it going with your girlfriend?" she asked, her smile less sincere as she made the enquiry than it had been formerly.

"Couldn't be better, Wendy," Dean assured her, then added "Have you met Sam? He's new in town. Dad and Stan are grooming him to be the next partner at Winchester & Copes."

Sam's eyes widened in alarm and he stiffened as is if someone had just stuck something cold up somewhere sensitive, but he managed to twitch his lips into a tight, awkward, 'blink and you'll miss it' smile as Wendy turned and gave him a cursory appraisal. "Hi, Sam," she said, and Sam responded with a brief nod.

"He's the strong silent type," Dean explained, and Wendy smiled at Sam again, but without enthusiasm. "So what can I get for you boys?" she asked, turning her attention to Dean once more. "The usual, Dean?"

"Yeah – ah . . . no. I'll have a diet coke. I'm driving," he explained as Wendy raised her eyebrows.

"OK." She still looked surprised. "And for you Sam?"

Sam cleared his throat and ordered a Budweiser, and Wendy sauntered away with a wiggle that Dean was happy to admire as she doubtless intended him to.

"F.Y. I. Sam, the strong silent routine isn't as big a hit with the ladies as slush novels would have you believe," Dean explained helpfully. "You know, what they really go for is a guy with a sense of humor. You really need to work on that."

Sam glared and his lips pruned into an expression of disapproval that, in time, Dean would come to think of as Sam's bitch-face, but any response he might have made was forestalled when Dean was suddenly thumped on the shoulder from behind and a loud male voice proclaimed "Yo! Winch!"

A cheery faced red-headed man appeared round the side of the booth with his arm slung round a pert blonde and Dean introduced Sam to his friends Chad and Nicki. "What you doing here?" Chad demanded, dropping into the seat next to Sam and pulling Nicki down beside him. "Aren't you supposed to be at Folsom U. studying whatever it is this week?"

"Time off for good behaviour, Chad."

"Yeah? What happened to your face? Penny catch you wearing her underwear again?"

"What can I say? I can't resist pink silk." Dean caught the expression on Sam's face and hurriedly added "Kidding, Sam!" to prevent any possible confusion about the matter.

Wendy returned with their drinks and took their orders. Sam asked for a chicken salad and Dean wondered how the guy had ever grown to such impressive proportions on a diet of rabbit food, but then he recalled his father's comments that morning and it occurred to him that Sam had probably ordered the cheapest meal on the menu. Dean ordered his usual bacon cheeseburger with extra sides of fries and onion rings and asked for a plate of mixed breads for the table to share while they were waiting.

Sam had an odd smile on his face and Dean was curious to know what amused him.

"Just wondering why you ordered _diet_ coke," he explained.

"You're drinking coke?" Chad exclaimed.

"I'm driving," Dean reiterated, but this time he took out the keys to the Impala and twirled them round his index finger.

"No!" Chad was aghast. "The old man finally let you drive the old crate?"

"Hey!" Dean pointed an imperious finger at him. "Respect! Or you won't ever get to ride in her."

"We gonna take a spin in her later?"

Dean gave a tight shake of his head. "We do not joy ride in the Impala."

Chad shook his head derisively. "Man, you're as bad as your dad. It's just a car!"

Dean's eyebrows shot into his hairline. "Say that again and you can go find your own booth!"

Chad leaned conspiratorially toward Sam. "Doesn't even have a CD player. His old man's still playing audio-tapes."

"I'm not kidding." The smile had dropped off Dean's face and the bantering tone had been replaced with the barest suggestion of a hard edge.

Chad held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Hey, man, don't get your panties in a bunch. I was just yanking your chain."

In the somewhat awkward pause that followed Dean noticed that Sam was watching him. It was hard to read the meaning of the slight crease between his eyebrows, whether it was surprise, curiosity or something more disparaging. Doubtless Dean's protective loyalty toward the car seemed odd to a stranger. He forced himself to relax and he shook his head with a smile. "Nobody appreciates a classic any more," he said sadly. Luckily Wendy arrived at that moment with the plateful of baked breads diffusing any lingering tension in the atmosphere. Chad dived into the plate with a greedy appetite that was balanced out by the fact that Nicki ate like a bird. Nevertheless, Dean was careful to make sure Sam got at least a fair share.

As the evening progressed they were joined by a few more of the local crowd. There tended to be some natural curiosity about the newcomer in their midst, and Sam was fine answering questions about work and how he'd met Dean, but he became uncomfortable if pressed too hard about where he came from or what he'd done in the past. Dean would readily have admitted to having some curiosity of his own about Sam's background but since it was so obviously a sore point he made an effort to change the subject whenever Sam looked uneasy and steered the conversation toward other topics. Unfortunately this inevitably led to Sam being left out of the conversation altogether after a while so Dean suggested a game of pool. Sam acknowledged he hadn't had much practice at the game, but he was an average to fair player and held his own in his team, and he pulled off a couple of lucky shots that earned him the general approval of the group. Dean was a better than fair player and, truth be told, he was probably playing more flamboyantly than usual, relishing the opportunity to show off to Sam with something he was actually good at.

The fries and onion rings disappeared pretty quickly when Dean offered them around but when they were gone he ordered buffalo wings as well. Sam accepted food offerings reluctantly but Dean kept sticking plates under his nose until he capitulated, and until Dean was satisfied that he'd eaten enough to keep a growing boy healthy and active.

As he waved the last wing in Sam's face Dean noticed that he seemed pre-occupied. He was looking down and chalking his cue, apparently with great concentration, and he accepted the wing inattentively. "Those guys behind you, Dean, eleven o'clock," he said quietly, without looking up, "Do you know them?"

Dean glanced round and noticed, for the first time, a pair of strangers seated at a table some feet away. They were watching the group at the pool table until they saw Dean look their way but then they returned to their own conversation and concentrated on drinking their beers.

"Nah. Haven't seen them before," said Dean. "They look like tourists. Why?"

Sam nibbled idly at the buffalo wing. "They've been watching you."

Dean's eyebrows hooked upwards. "Huh." He looked back at the strangers but they were engrossed in their conversation now. "So what d'you think's the attraction, Sam? My chiseled jaw or my firm buttocks?"

Sam glanced up at Dean through his soft fringe of lashes. "Don't think it's your body they're after."

"Hmmph." Dean tossed his head sideways. "Well, they're not my type anyway," he quipped, but he kept a discreet eye on the tourists after that. Once or twice he caught them glancing in his direction but it didn't seem excessive. He wondered if Sam was just being over sensitive. Maybe they were just waiting for the pool table to free up.

Chad and Nicki left after a couple of games, Rob and Emily soon after that. Once the party started breaking up some of the guys suggested heading out of town and going clubbing, but the mention of strippers brought a disapproving wrinkle to Sam's nose and Dean could imagine Penny's face if she knew about it so he made their excuses and the guys moved on without them.

Dean didn't feel ready to head home. He toyed with the idea of playing another game, though he and Sam were hardly an even match on the table. They could just go back to the booth and have some pie . . . As he was deliberating the two tourists approached the pool table and Dean supposed that settled the matter, but just as he turned to clear the way for them the nearest one hailed him.

"Hey, hot shot!" In spite of the challenging salutation the man's smile was affable enough and he was holding out a couple of beers. "My brother and I reckon we can beat you. Fancy a friendly?"

Dean glanced at Sam. Since he'd expressed reservations about this pair already Dean wondered how he'd respond to this overture, but now he appeared indifferent. "What do you think, Sam?" Dean asked. "Are we ready for a challenge?"

The corners of Sam's mouth shrugged down in a non-committal gesture, but he didn't seem unwilling so Dean accepted the beers and shook the newcomer's hand. He introduced himself as Rick and his brother was Kurt. Like Sam, Kurt appeared to be the quiet one of the pair. Rick did all the talking. The brothers were on a road trip touring the States and Rick chatted non-stop about their travels. He paid more attention to boasting about their visits to Hollywood and the Grand Canyon than he did to the game but Dean didn't mind. He was inclined to be talkative too. As it happened he'd taken a year out before college and done some touring himself, and was happy to regale everybody with tales of his trip round Europe. Rick was suitably impressed with the story of Dean's travels, though Dean acknowledged that he regretted not having seen more of his own country.

"Well, there's still time, buddy," Rick said. "Hey, Sam! Your go."

Sam's attention had started wandering toward the end of the game and his play had deteriorated a little as a consequence, though he and Dean were still in the lead. Dean suspected he was bored. After all, he'd spent most of the evening listening to other people's conversations without having much to contribute of his own. Dean determined to quit after this game and skip pie. Sam had work in the morning; he should probably take him home.

In the end Rick and Kurt won by a whisker and Dean was about to shake hands and bid them goodnight and best wishes for the rest of their road trip, but Rick was eager for another game.

"Tell you what, we'll give you best out of three," he insisted.

"Ah, Rick, another night we'd have loved to but Sam's gotta be up early – "

"You're not tired are you, Sam?"

Sam quickly straightened up from where he'd been leaning against a wall. "Hell, no!" he exclaimed, perhaps a little too eagerly. He had a slightly silly grin on his face and it crossed Dean's mind to wonder how much he'd had to drink that evening. He didn't think it had been that much but maybe Sam wasn't used to alcohol. Hell, maybe he'd been a Mormon or something. Maybe that's why he was so prissy and reluctant to talk about his past.

"Want to make it more interesting, Dean?" Rick persisted. "Fifty dollars says we can beat you again." He drew out his wallet and placed a note down on the edge of the pool table.

Dean started to get a bad feeling about this. He shook his head. "That's a little bit rich for my blood – "

"Oh, come on, pretty boy!" Rick laughed. "What have you got to spend your money on besides hair mousse? I thought you were the player round here!"

His tone was bantering but Dean knew when he was being goaded. He looked at Sam who was still wearing that silly smile. He seemed ready to play on and Dean didn't want to look like he was intimidated. He knew he could lift his game another notch or two, he just wasn't so sure about Sam.

Dean pinned a grin on his face and pulled out his own wallet. "You're funny," he told Rick. "Funny guy." And he placed his own fifty on top of Rick's.

"Make it a hundred!"

Dean snapped his head round to stare at Sam as he added a third note to the pile. "Sam, no!" But Rick was already matching Sam's counter.

"We can take `em, Dean," Sam insisted happily.

Dean pulled him away from the table and dropped his voice. "Sam, I don't know how well these guys really play," he hissed. "I think we're being hustled here!"

Sam gave Dean a benign, glassy eyed smile and patted his face. "I have faith in you," he assured him.

Dean felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. After the way he'd been straining the plastic that evening he could ill afford to throw away fifty dollars himself and now he had Sam counting on him, the guy who could barely stretch to a chicken salad! He passed a nervous hand over his mouth and turned back to the table where Rick was waiting for him to break. Behind him there was a noise of bottles falling over and Sam shouted "Jesus Christ!" loud enough for the whole bar to hear. Apparently he'd leaned against the corner of a table and tipped it over and now he was clumsily trying to sop up spilled beer with paper napkins.

"'S ok. I'm all right."

"Son of a bitch," Dean breathed. "Sam, ask Wendy for a cloth."

"Right, right, will do," Sam agreed, wiping his hands on a sodden napkin. "Sorry guys. Don't worry. I'll get us another round in. Same again, everyone?"

Dean gritted his teeth. Another time drunk Sam might be fun. He was certainly a lot more relaxed. But right now he was a freakin' liability. "Just coke for me, Sam." As he picked up his cue he noticed the jeering expression on Rick's face. "I'm _driving_ ," he growled.

Sam walked a little unevenly over to the bar where Wendy was just finishing serving another customer.

"Sorry, I had a little accident over there," he told her.

"Yeah, I saw. Don't worry, Sam. I'll take care of it." She made a move toward the pool table but Sam caught her arm and held her back.

"Would you mind getting me three beers, first," he asked. "And a coke and an empty glass, and a glass of water if that's ok."

Wendy served the drinks and glass on a tray for him, then picked up a cloth and went to clean up the mess he'd left by the pool table. Sam glanced back at the tourists. They weren't paying any attention to him but were concentrating on needling Dean now. Since their only reaction when he'd called on the name of Christ was to laugh at his clumsiness he was reasonably confident they weren't demons: just a couple of low rent hustlers who thought they'd spotted a fool and his money.

As relentlessly annoying as Dean could be Sam had decided that, on balance, he was a fundamentally decent guy. He had his father's open friendliness and generosity, he was good humored on the whole, loyal and protective of his family Sam had noticed, and it hadn't escaped Sam's attention how carefully Dean had protected him from his friends' curiosity all night. If he could just lose the ego and the attitude for five minutes he might even be likeable. The trouble was Dean had been telegraphing his ego and, unfortunately, his generosity to the whole bar all evening. That's why these low-lifes had decided he was an easy mark. Well, they were wrong. He wasn't. Not tonight.

Sam picked up his beer and poured about three quarters of it into the empty glass, then topped up the bottle with water. Replacing his bottle on the tray he left the glasses behind on the bar and carried the tray with exaggerated carefulness back to the pool table. Setting it down he picked up and took a long pull on his beer.

"Easy, Tiger," Dean hissed edgily, grasping Sam's arm and pulling it down from his mouth. "I need you sharp."

"Don't worry, Dean," Sam assured him airily, "I play better when I've had a drink."

Dean had made good progress on the table. Now he was giving the game his full attention he was a very good player, but Rick was better and when Dean just missed a difficult shot Rick was ready to take advantage. He started picking off balls with smug expertise and for a while it looked like it might be a very short game, but then he got over confident and bungled a shot and now it was Sam's turn.

Sam deliberated how to play it. He had been studying these guys very carefully throughout the previous game. Kurt was the more consistent player of the two but Rick was the brains, the leader and the ego of the pair and Sam was confident Kurt wasn't an issue. He would follow his brother's lead. Rick was at least as cocky and smart-ass as Dean without any of Dean's endearing qualities, and Sam had noticed he'd been less than pleased that his road-trip boasts had been trumped by Dean's European tour. Sam was aware if he played the long game he was risking Dean's money as well as his own, but he was sure Rick would be greedy and would grasp an opportunity to hurt and humiliate if it was offered to him.

Sam elected to overplay an apparently easy shot. The ball whizzed across the table, wiped its feet on the edges of the pocket and stayed on the lip. Sam grinned apologetically at Dean. "Oops," he said, and Dean restrained a groan of exasperation. It was hard on him being left out of the loop, but his genuine anxiety was really helping to sell the play and, truth be told, Sam was enjoying a little payback for Dean having ridden him constantly since they'd met. Sam wasn't stupid, though. He'd left the table safe, and all Kurt could do was play a safety shot in return, then it was Dean's turn again.

He circled the table looking for the best angle and found a shot that was possible, though it wasn't easy. He had to use two cushions to make it, but his aim was sure. For a moment it looked like it might not have enough legs, and Sam could see Dean was holding his breath as the ball trickled toward the pocket, but after hanging on the edge for a microsecond that felt like an eternity it dropped in and Sam whistled and applauded noisily. "Go, Dean!" he yelled, tossing Rick an arrogant and provocative leer. The next shot wasn't easy either but Dean made it, and after that he hit his stride again and Sam began to wonder if he might pull off a win after all. But when it came down to one ball Dean was sweating visibly and as he leant over the table there was a tell-tale tremble in his arm, and Sam started to feel bad about putting him under so much pressure. As he drew back his arm to take the shot his hand shook. He miscued, froze for a moment, then his head drooped. Rick had two balls left on the table and a free shot. It was all over and everyone knew it. As Dean turned from the table he looked gutted. "I'm sorry, Sam," he murmured huskily, as if it was all his fault, and suddenly it wasn't fun any more.

Rick cleared the table with a flourish and picked up his winnings. "Thanks for the game, guys," he said with an insolent tone and extended his hand, and when Dean shook it half-heartedly he added, "Guess you're just not the hotshot you thought you were, hey, Dean?"

Dean's face darkened with anger and Sam worried he might blow it, but he didn't bite. He started to walk away from the table but Sam lingered.

"You've gotta give us a chance to win our money back," Sam yelped.

Rick just laughed dismissively and Dean tugged at Sam's arm.

"Forget it, Sam. We've been hustled," he said bitterly. "It's over. Let's go."

Sam roughly shook Dean's hand away, making the transition from happy drunk to angry drunk and fishing awkwardly in his wallet. "Double or nothing!" he challenged.

"Sam, no!" Dean tried to pull him away from the table but Sam shook him off again.

It was a fair offer. If Rick didn't get greedy, Sam was giving him the chance to walk away even, but it was there in his eyes. He was greedy. "Don't think your boyfriend's interested, Sam," he leered. "And you ain't got what it takes."

Sam's nostrils flared. _Right._ The asshole deserved all he got. Sam lurched toward the table and slammed the rest of the advance John had given him down on the edge. "Three hundred dollars!" he snarled. "It's all I've got. Just you and me, you fucking scum sucking, low life loser!"

Dean tried to make a grab for Sam's money and put himself bodily between him and Rick. "That's it, Sam! We're going home now. Sam!"

Sam pushed him roughly away. "Stay out of this, Dean. This is between me and him!"

"Yeah, that's right, Dean," Rick agreed jeeringly as he matched Sam's bet. "Sam's a big boy. He can make his own decisions."

"He's fucking drunk, you asshole!"

"He's put his money down; I've matched it. It's too late."

"You son of a bitch!"

Dean made a lunge at Rick and Sam was surprised how much of his strength it took to hold him back. He needed to calm the situation quickly. Wendy was starting to turn worried glances in their direction. Draping his arms round Dean's neck and shoulders he sought to gain his attention without Rick seeing. "It's ok, Dean! It's ok! I told you, I play better when I've had a drink."

As Dean tried to disentangle himself from Sam's inappropriate embraces he looked up and Sam held him with a steady and meaningful look. Dean cocked his head questioningly to one side and Sam winked at him. Dean's eyes widened for a moment then he stepped back. He still looked doubtful but he was ready to back Sam's play. "Whatever!" he snapped. "I'm not your keeper," and he dropped irritably into the nearest chair.

Sam kept up his drunk act just a moment longer for Rick's benefit, then he picked up his cue, placed the cue ball and sent it smartly into the edge of the pack dropping two balls with his first shot. As he started smoothly picking the rest off one by one he cast a slightly anxious, slightly apologetic grin at Dean.

Dean's eyes were wide, his lips parted in a silent astonished "oo" and Sam felt a curious wave of something like affection for him. Then Dean threw back his head and indulged in a long, unrestrained peal of laughter. He picked up his coke, drank long and settled back to enjoy the show. Rick and Kurt's mouths were open too, and their expressions were murderous. _Now_ Sam was enjoying himself.

It was a short game and when it was over Sam extended his hand to Rick and Kurt but he had no real expectation that they would accept their defeat gracefully, and he was right.

"You son of a bitch!" Rick spat. "You played us for suckers!"

Sam's lips pursed into their characteristic downward shrug. "I guess the game's only fun if you win, huh?" he suggested.

Rick made a grab for the money but Sam's powerful grip closed around his wrist and he winced in pain as his arm folded back.

"Back off," Sam told him. His voice was low but filled with quiet menace. "You played the wrong mark. Those are the breaks. Now get out of here."

Dean was on his feet. Sam could feel him just behind his shoulder. Then a new voice interrupted.

"Is there a problem here, boys?" A rugged looking man almost Sam's height and built like a brick proverbial appeared behind Dean.

"No, Jack, I don't think so," Dean answered, evenly. "Our friends were just leaving. Right?"

Sam released Rick's arm and the brothers backed towards the door.

"This isn't over!" Rick shot back before they left.

"It is if you're smart," Sam warned.

Jack dropped a gently restraining hand on Sam's shoulder as the hustlers disappeared out of the door. "Ok, son, cool off now," he said.

Sam noted the direction the brothers had taken then turned and nodded politely at the bar owner. "It's ok, I'm good," he assured him.

"Sorry, Jack, we didn't mean for there to be any trouble," Dean apologized. "Sam and I are leaving now, too. Ok, Sam?"

Sam nodded agreement and collected his jacket from their booth. As Dean made to leave he caught his attention and gestured toward the other door, on the other side of the bar to the one the hustlers had left through. Dean nodded and Sam followed him outside. As they left Dean started laughing again. "Man, you're a dark horse you sneaky son of a bitch! You really had me going back there! Have you ever considered a career on the stage?"

Sam was still keeping his eye out for the hustlers as they made their way across the street, he wasn't convinced they'd let the matter drop, but he allowed himself a slightly self-satisfied grin. He rolled his tongue against the inside of his cheek. "Nah. I hear TV's where the real money's to be made," he quipped, and he was rewarded with a broad and delighted grin in return from Dean.

"Well, if it comes to that, with your skills you could be making a shit-load of money in the pool halls!" Dean suggested. "You're a natural."

Sam frowned and shook his head. "I don't want to make money that way. Not any more. The only reason I did it tonight was because those guys pissed me off."

Dean paused and gazed at Sam appraisingly for a moment. "Ok, Sam, so it's clear you've got quite a back story behind you, and if you don't want to tell me about it that's cool. I won't push. But just so you know, if you ever do feel like sharing any of it, you've officially got my attention."

Sam felt a little awkward. He did feel he owed Dean some kind of explanation, but where would he even start? He shrugged and stared off into the distance for a moment. "It's complicated," he said.

"Yeah, I'm getting that," Dean acknowledged.

Then Sam heard it: the soft scrape of a foot, and the barest movement in the shadows confirmed his worst suspicions. "Dean!" he yelled, grabbing him and hauling him back out of harm's way just as Kurt appeared brandishing a knife. It took Sam a moment to block his lunge and grab his wrist. There was a sickening snap of bone and Kurt shrieked and dropped the knife. Sam kicked it out of the way. Rick wasn't far behind Kurt but a swift kick to the knee-cap dropped him to the floor as well. Kurt was clutching his injured arm and whimpering.

"Take your brother and walk away," Sam told him. "While you can still walk."

Kurt's lip curled back in anger but he backed off. He lifted Rick's arm over his shoulder and the brothers limped off down the street. Sam watched until they'd receded well into the distance, then he glanced at Dean who was backed up against the wall where Sam had pushed him, looking stunned. He saw Sam looking at him and cleared his throat.

He swallowed and laughed uneasily. "Right, well, just let me know when you need back up, Sam, and I'll be right there!"

Sam picked up the knife, closed it and slipped it into his jacket pocket. "I don't think they'll bother us again," he said.

Dean was looking at Sam rather oddly as he moved to walk beside him. "Sam, you are mad, bad and dangerous to know," he breathed. Sam glanced at Dean's face. The remark didn't appear to be a criticism, and it lacked any of Dean's usual mocking tone. After a moment Dean laughed, still a little nervously but laced with something like excitement. "Man, you were _awesome_!"

Sam wasn't expecting any more trouble but he was relieved when they made it back to the Impala without further incident. Dean shivered as he fumbled for his keys.

"Is it me, or has it gotten really cold?" Sure enough their breath was coming out in a chilly mist. "I should have brought my jacket, but I didn't think I'd need it. It was really warm earlier."

Sam began to feel uneasy. He wanted to get back and check on Amanda. "We should get back to the house," he urged.

As they climbed into the car he handed Dean his share of the pot.

"No, you keep it, Sam. You won it."

"You played your part." Sam insisted.

Dean surveyed him levelly for a few moments and nodded. "Yeah, and my part was to watch you and wet myself, wasn't it? You might have let me know what you were doing, you know."

Sam hesitated. He'd been expecting this sooner or later, but now that it had come up he felt defensive. "It was more convincing if - "

"If I was sweating my balls off. Yeah. I get it." Dean's eyes were dark and serious. "Don't ever play me like that again, Sam."  
  
Sam rankled a little at Dean's tone. _Or what?_ he was tempted to retort. _You'll beat me up? Yeah, right. You won't be my friend?_

The bubble of Sam's arrogance burst into air as he realized that the latter was _exactly_ what Dean meant. Friendship was being extended here, right along with the threat of its withdrawal. Dean was making it clear that he was offering something of value, and it wasn't to be fucked with.

Sam swallowed and nodded. "Sure," he replied, a little hoarsely. "You got it."

 

**iii.**

Sam was relieved to find that everything appeared normal back at the house. Amanda was making herself a hot chocolate and preparing for bed when they arrived. John hadn't come home from his poker game yet, but neither Dean nor Amanda appeared unduly concerned about that.

Dean began recounting the events of the evening to his mother, leaving out the incident involving the hustlers and concentrating on the news and gossip of his friends instead. He reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a couple of beers. As he handed one to Sam he gave him a cheery grin and a wink, and Sam suddenly felt a painfully acute pang of anxiety. If anything should happen to Dean . . .

Sam used a visit to the bathroom as an opportunity to check upstairs, but a search of Dean's room and Amanda's revealed nothing unusual. In some ways, waiting for something to happen was the worst of it. Fighting monsters was – well, not easy, but straightforward. You did what you had to. There wasn't time to think or worry when you were in the middle of a fight. But here he was, standing at ground zero, watching the demon omens gather and just _waiting_ for the events of his dream to start playing out and all the time getting more and more attached to . . . its subjects. Part of him wanted the wait to be over, if only he could be certain there was anything he could do to stop it all happening just the way he'd dreamt it. But this was no ordinary monster he was dealing with. He wasn't even sure it was an ordinary demon. If fifty words of Latin were all he needed to save Dean's life then why was Sam's mother dead?

He descended the stairs and Amanda wished him goodnight as they crossed in the hallway.

"Ah, Amanda - ?"

She turned and waited for him to finish his sentence but he didn't know what he was going to say. "Um . . . if you need anything . . . if . . . We'll be just down here. Just call . . ."

She smiled and frowned at the same time. "Sure, Sam," she replied, puzzled. "Goodnight."

He watched her go upstairs and felt the muscles on his forehead tightening and creasing as she reached the landing and disappeared.

When he returned to the living room he found Dean stretched out on the couch. He had his guitar laid across his stomach and was strumming quietly and crooning lines from the song he'd been playing earlier that day.

♫ . . . _knocking at my door_  
_in the middle of the night. What you want me for?_  
_Why do you walk into my_ – ♫

He glanced up as Sam picked up his beer from the coffee table and dropped into an armchair.

♫ _. . . ah . . . do deedoo deedoo.  
Ra tatata tum tum tat a ta_.♫

"Needs work," Sam commented with a smile.

"Yeah. It isn't finished."

The soft lamplight glistened in Dean's eyes, picked out the curl of those ridiculously long lashes and accentuated the curves of his plump lips. Sam's gaze traveled down the length of Dean's body and he couldn't help thinking about the previous evening when he'd seen him half naked . . . well, completely naked in the end. _Oh, no!_ He _definitely_ didn't want to think about _that_ – or what he'd heard during that excruciating hour he'd spent behind the couch . . .

He took a long swallow from his beer and cleared his throat. "So, you're a music major?" he asked, desperately making conversation in an effort to derail his thoughts.

"I am now." Dean was still strumming quietly. Sam watched his fingers playing sensuously across the strings –

"You weren't before?"

"I've had a few educational fiascos," Dean conceded. "It's gonna work out this time, though. Music feels right for me."

"So why didn't you do that in the first place?"

"Ah!" Dean sighed and grimaced. He stopped playing for a moment and passed a hand round the back of his neck. "Ah, you know how it is, Sam. You do what you think the folks want, what you think'll make them proud of you, and you just wind up . . . I dunno. I guess I figured if I couldn't be a typical macho jock I'd at least try and be smart . . ." Dean laughed and crooked his eyebrows at Sam. "But I guess I'm what you'd call the 'sensitive creative' type."

Sam laughed. "And is that a problem?"

"You mean apart from the fact that I think my Dad thinks I'm probably gay? . . . Not that there's anything wrong with that."

Sam paused midway through lifting his beer to his mouth. He wondered if he was starting to be a little affected by the alcohol he'd consumed that evening . . . because he didn't think he'd normally ask the question he knew he was just about to ask . . .

"And are you?"

Dean's eyebrows shot up, whether from the question or just the fact that Sam had asked it was open to debate.

"No!" Dean laughed. "No, it's just that . . . well, you know what it's like. Dad was born and raised in Smallville, USA, and whether he admits it or not he still kinda thinks if I use mousse and write poetry I've gotta be a bit gay."

"You write poetry?"

"Lyrics. I'm a musician. And that's actually made me pretty popular with women. In case you hadn't noticed, Sam, I have a steady girlfriend."

It occurred to Sam that Dean did protest a little too much and he couldn't resist poking him a little further.

"Doesn't necessarily mean anything," he said, pursing his lips just a tad dismissively.

Dean put down his guitar, sat up and leaned forward. The assertive stance he was doubtless aiming for was somewhat compromised by the lamplight emphasizing the beauty of his eyes and face. "Listen, Sam, if I were gay I wouldn't have a problem acknowledging it," he insisted. "I have gay friends at college, and there's a couple of the guys here I'm not sure about but they're probably afraid to come out. There's an element round here that thinks anyone who's 'different' is some kind of freak or monster. Well, they need to get themselves an education."

Sam didn't respond straight away. He was a little irritated by Dean's last remark. He'd met college guys before who'd gone away and had their heads filled with other people's ideas and come back thinking that made them better than everyone around them, including the parents who'd worked hard to send them to college in the first place. The reality was that Dean Winchester didn't know what an education _was_ . . .

Sam envied him that.

Still there was some mischievous devil inside Sam that tempted him to test Dean's liberality a little further. He took another mouthful of beer. "Ever tried it?" he asked, casually. Oh, he had _definitely_ had too much to drink.

Dean's eyebrows hooked upwards once more and he stretched his head forward a little. "With a man you mean? . . . No!"

It occurred to Sam that, by now, Dean must be wondering why Sam was so interested in his sexuality.

As if to confirm his thoughts Dean asked "Have you?"

Sam twirled his bottle in his fingers, swilling the beer around in the bottom. "Once." He took another swig. "A male hooker came on to me one time. I was curious so I thought 'what the hell?'."

In spite of his 'education' Sam could see that Dean was shocked. His eyes were wide and his lips pursed into that cherubic 'oo' once more. Sam was surprised at how tempted he was to just reach over and plant one on them right there and then. Was it the alcohol, he wondered, or was Dean Winchester himself the intoxicant that was fuzzing his senses and clouding his judgment.

Dean laughed and shook his head. "Ah, Sammy, Sammy, Sammy, you are seriously not as sweet `n innocent as you look, are you?"

"My name's Sam, Dean."

"Yeah, of course. Sorry . . . so . . . er . . ." Dean leaned back and took a quick pull from his own beer. "What was it like?"

Sam suppressed the smile that played at the corner of his lips. He shrugged. "It was ok."

"But . . . you prefer women?" Dean suggested, trying but not altogether succeeding to make the question sound rhetorical.

Sam frowned and shrugged again. It took him a few moments to answer, and then he said "actually I can't honestly say I'm that bothered either way. I think the whole thing's over-rated."

Dean's mouth dropped open. He looked even more shocked and astonished than he had at Sam's first confession. "What . . . sex, you mean? You're kidding, right?"

Sam shook his head. "I could never really see what the fuss was all about."

Dean laughed outright. "Dude! . . . Seriously, Sam, if you think that then you're doing it wrong!"

Sam looked up from his beer, their eyes met and there was a strange, Sam felt, shared moment that stirred something inside him and made his chest ache with a gasp that seemed to be trapped there, and a voice in his head whispered " _show me!"._

 _No._ This had gone too far. Sam needed to put a stop to this line of conversation right now. "We should go to bed," he said, and immediately regretted his choice of words as Dean's eyebrows shot up.

"Excuse me?"

"No! That wasn't – " Sam could feel his cheeks growing hot with blushing. "I didn't mean – I just meant – It's late. We should – "

But Dean was laughing again. "Ah, Sam! Your face! You're priceless. You really are."

Sam scowled. How _had_ he lived so long?

"You're right. It is late, and you've got work tomorrow," Dean acknowledged, checking his watch. "Where the hell has Dad got to? He should be home by now." He stood up. "I'm just gonna make myself a bit of supper. You want some?"

Sam stood too. "Seriously? You're still hungry? Do you ever stop eating?"

"I'm just gonna have a jelly sandwich. I missed out on pie at the bar."

Sam shook his head. He didn't know where Dean put it all. He didn't deserve his male-model body . . . and _seriously_ , Sam needed to stop thinking about him that way. It was stupid. It was pointless. It was dangerous and it was unprofessional. He made his way to the den and sat down on the cot, dropping his head into his hands and drawing his fingers down his face. He spent a few minutes just trying to clear his head. Of all the times to start developing his first man-crush, this wasn't it. He stood up and turned out the room's main light, starting to unbutton his shirt as he made his way back to the bed. He reached out and switched on the bedside lamp. As he withdrew his fingers the light flickered on and off with a sinister fizzing noise and Sam's whole body turned cold as suddenly as if it had been snap frozen.

_Sandwich!_

"DEAN!" He spun round and flew out of the room.

 

.

 

Dean was humming as he reached the top of the stairs.

 _♫'There's a crossroads coming in your life,'♫_ he sang to himself _._  
_♫'And your fate's gonna turn on the point of a knife.'_  
_"He sang 'Hey, brother, come away with me._  
_'Let me take you, let me show you how it's gotta be!'♫_

Dean frowned a little. It hadn't occurred to him when he'd first written it but, in the light of the recent conversation, Dean wondered if there was something vaguely homoerotic sounding about those last lines.

He was raising the sandwich to his mouth as he reached his bedroom door. Pausing before opening it he glanced down the hall to the end of the passage where light streamed through the partially open door of his mother's bedroom. He was surprised that she was still up.

"Night, Mom!" he called.

He took a bite of his sandwich and turned the handle of his own door, then paused again. "Mom?" he called again through half chewed bread. Some instinct, some sense of unease, drew him down the passage toward the open door.

"Mom?" he repeated, a little louder, a little more insistently.

The room appeared empty when he entered it and a puzzled frown settled on his face. Then something wet splashed on his forehead. He wiped the drip from his brow and stared for a moment at the blood red stain on his fingers then his eyes flicked to the ceiling. There was a moment of dull incomprehension before they widened with horror and he uttered a strangled scream. "Mom!"

He had the briefest glimpse of her blood-soaked body pinned to the ceiling before a wash of yellow flames blazed from the centre, engulfing her, and he felt a sudden violent tug on his shirt collar as he was hauled backwards through the door.

He didn't know what it was. He didn't care. He only knew he had to get back in the room and get his mother out of it, save her from the flames, the heat – but there was something in his way now, some huge monstrous form blocking his passage. He beat at it and thrust his foot against a wall to force it out of his way.

"Dean! You can't help her! You can't save her! She's gone!" _Sam's voice._

Still he pushed, he rammed, he fought. Then Sam's face was right in front of him, jaw hard and determined, head framed by a halo of smoke and flame. Then there was nothing but black oblivion. Dean never even saw the punch that knocked him out.

Sam moved frantically to lift Dean's inert body as the heat in the corridor increased and the acrid smells of smoke, blood and charred flesh mingled with the bad-egg stink of sulfur. He felt rather than saw a shadow cross in front of him, and when he looked up he felt stunned and confused.

"John!"

John's face grinned malevolently down at him, and despite the heat from the crackling flames behind him, Sam felt utterly chilled.

"Guess again." And as he spoke the dark eyes turned yellow. "Little Sammy, my how you've grown! You won't remember, but we've met before. I knew your mother well."

Hot rage replaced cold and fear and animated Sam's limbs. He lunged recklessly at the demon, but in an instant he was lifted bodily from the floor by some invisible force and slammed back against the wall. The breath was driven from his lungs and he flailed his limbs helplessly.

"Gotta say I just love what you've done with the place. I'm impressed. I can see you've done your best," the demon sneered, "and I want you to know it was a great effort, honestly. It would have kept out the rank and file. But I'm a little above your pay grade. You don't know enough to take me on, son. You're not strong enough. Not yet."

Sam gasped in a lungful of air and started reciting: "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus – "

It was as if a rope had tightened around his throat. The words died in his mouth as he gasped for air. He could feel his windpipe being crushed.

"You can't save them, Sammy. It's too late. It was too late before you were born."

John's massive frame moved in front of him and Sam stared helplessly down into the leering features and pus-coloured eyes. "Amanda's dead," he pronounced with gleeful satisfaction. "Dean's as good as dead. I have John Winchester, and pretty soon I'll have his son as well."

The crushing pain in Sam's throat increased. His mouth opened and closed like a beached fish as he struggled for air, but just as he began to lose consciousness the grip relaxed and he dropped in a heap to the floor. John was leaning spread across the opposite wall, panting. "Get Dean!" he gasped. "Take him outside as fast as you can!"

Sam stared for a moment then crawled over to Dean's body and stumbled to his feet.

"Hurry, Sam," John croaked. "I can't hold him back much longer."

Starved for oxygen and faint from the heat Sam found one last reserve of strength and hauled Dean over his shoulder. Torn and trembling he shot a despairing glance back at John. _Fifty words of latin . . .?_

"Now, Sam! Go!"

There wasn't time. He plunged down the stairs and through the front door with Dean over his shoulder and until they were outside he never looked back. He crossed the street and lowered Dean onto the lawn of the opposing property before turning back to gaze at the house. He caught a glimpse of John's silhouette dark against the flames that were engulfing the upper level. He must have imagined he could see the leer and the glow of the eyes before he vanished.

There were people gathering in the street now. Someone must have called 911; he could hear sirens in the distance. As he turned to gaze down at Dean he saw his eyelids flutter, and the next moment the young man was back on his feet and Sam had to use every ounce of his remaining strength to hold him back from running into the burning building.

"It's too late, Dean!" he cried. "She's gone! I'm sorry. I couldn't save her. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

At last the fight seemed to go out of Dean and he just stood there in Sam's arms, seemingly as inert as when he'd been unconscious. Sam turned and looked at him, at the dance of the flames reflected in his stunned, bewildered eyes, and at the pallor of shock in the too, too beautiful face. And Sam had to wonder, if he hadn't been so pre-occupied with those features and the young man whom they graced, would Amanda Winchester still be alive . . . ?

 

 

  


**  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTINUE TO CHAPTER 4 FOR A PREVIEW OF THE NEXT STORY IN THIS SERIES:
> 
> I Can Never Go Home (Part 2): The Never Ending Road


	4. Preview of Part 2: The Never Ending Road

**_Castor's Passage, California_ **   


The silence in the car was tense and chilled. Neither of them had spoken for several minutes. There were tears standing in the woman's eyes and at length she turned to her husband a face that was at once stony and angry, yet pleading.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" she demanded.

"I don't know what you want me to say," he sighed. "I've told you I'm sorry."

"Sorry isn't enough!"

"I can't keep having this conversation! I told you, she didn't mean anything to me."

"Well, while it was going on _I_ didn't mean anything to you, did I?"

When he answered her with more silence she turned her face toward the passenger window and stared at her own trembling lips reflected in the darkness beyond the glass. Slowly and mechanically her gaze gravitated toward the front of the car where the broken white lines disappeared under the far edge of the hood. Soon she was mesmerized by the repetitive, unchanging rhythm. She began to trace the lines back to where they stretched into the distance, into the unkown, unforgiving and inescapable future. Anxiety and fear began to constrict her chest as she stared at that distant point. She was suddenly possessed by the conviction that the road had no end, that she was being driven inexorably into the darkness of the eternal abyss. Even as the thought took shape she exhaled a breath that spilled from her lips in a frosted cloud.

Her husband spoke again and, at first, his oddly flat statements seemed to echo her own thoughts, but then they quickly ceased to make any sense at all.

"We've been on this road forever, and it was always leading us here. Whatever we did, whatever we tried to do, it was always going to come to this. This thing between us, these feelings . . . they're cursed, damned. They've made monsters of us both. There's only one way this can end."

She stared at him blankly. "What? What are you – ?"

Suddenly he floored the gas pedal and the car leapt forward.

"Wait! Stop!" But her words froze in her mouth as her attention snapped to the road ahead, at the moment that it vanished beneath them . . .

Then they were falling and falling, and she was screaming, but her cries were cut short by the sounds of shattering glass and grinding metal then the long, mournful wail of the horn . . . . .

 

[ **Please click here to continue reading this story** ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1202605/chapters/2454853)

_**I Can Never Go Home (Part 2): The Never Ending Road  
** _

Summary: After the attack on the Winchesters, Sam Campbell must protect and prepare their shell-shocked son against the demon threat. When a couple disappear on a lonely Californian road it provides an opportunity to initiate Dean into the dark mysteries of the Supernatural.

 

**A/N: _I'd like to again express my grateful thanks to the amazingly talented_** [ **__ ** ](http://semarinan.livejournal.com/profile) [ **_semarinan_ ** ](http://semarinan.livejournal.com/) **_for another stunning gif._ **


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